


To you, sweet Somnus, I pray

by BelladonnaLee



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Insomnia, Libraries, M/M, Mystery, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-27
Updated: 2013-10-27
Packaged: 2017-12-30 07:31:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1015839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BelladonnaLee/pseuds/BelladonnaLee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Like a ghost Harry haunts the school corridor every night, but his feet always lead him to the library -- and to a certain blond.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Like a ghost Harry haunts the school corridor every night, but his feet always lead him to the library.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and its characters are not mine.

The witching hour had arrived, the time when nocturnal creatures came out to play, and the time when Harry Potter haunted the corridors of Hogwarts like a ghost. The corridor at night was quiet, save for the snores from the slumbering portraits on the walls. Altogether it was a peaceful night, a perfect time for a midnight rendezvous; and Harry, hidden beneath his invisibility cloak, glided along the dark corridors with such stealth that not even a mouse would be stirred.

It was not an exaggeration to claim that Harry knew every corridor and staircase and secret passageway there is to know at Hogwarts. After all, he had spent many sleepless nights exploring the castle -- with the help of a certain map of Hogwarts. He knew the floor plan of the castle like the back of his hand; so familiar with the interior of the castle he was that he did not even need to light his way in the corridors at night anymore.

After bypassing a rusty suit of armour, a row of snoring portraits, and a particularly nasty-looking gargoyle, he arrived before a set of majestic double doors. It was the entrance to the school library, where, according to the Marauder's Map, his quarry was supposed to be. As silently as he could manage, he pulled the door open and slipped inside.

The inside of the library was dark and stiflingly quiet, but without the stalking figure of the librarian, the library seemed oddly serene, as though it too had fallen into a deep slumber like the rest of the castle. Slivers of pale moonlight from the half moon high above crept into the library through the lattice windows, transforming the library into a place filled with otherworldly mystery. Away from the ethereal glow of the gentle moon, tall bookshelves, filled with dusty volumes, were hidden in the shadow, waiting to be discovered.

The air smelled of old parchment and ink and strangely, cedar. This, more than anything else, confirmed to Harry that his quarry was indeed here.

Harry strolled past bookshelf after bookshelf, alcove after alcove, until at last he saw faint candlelight shining through from behind several rows of bookshelves located very close to the Restricted Section. The light did not faze Harry; he was expecting company. Silent as a cat, he crept closer to the light source. After rounding a corner, he arrived at an alcove tucked away neatly between two rows of bookshelves.

The first thing that jumped into his vision was the tarnished oil lamp set upon the rosewood long table. The light was pale blue like moonlight, painting the boy, whose head was resting on the smooth tabletop, with dreamlike paleness.

With his visage facing Harry, the boy was easily recognizable: blond hair, pale skin, sharp feature -- it was Draco Malfoy, Harry's rival at Hogwarts. He appeared to be sleeping, his back rising and falling steadily in moderate tempo. Without his acid tongue and sharp edges, Draco looked almost innocent beneath the ethereal candlelight.

About his sleeping form were books and pieces of parchment scattered wildly across the tabletop like castle walls, barring anyone from coming through. Out of curiosity, Harry stole a look at what was written on the parchment. Strange incantations and unfamiliar symbols in Draco's cursive, archaic hand riddled the yellow parchment. The books proved to be equally unhelpful, their obscure content beyond Harry's ability to decipher.

Finding nothing of interest, Harry looked upon Draco's sleeping face once more, only to discover Draco's sleep was not as restful as it first appeared to be. There was a slight frown hanging over Draco's brow, spelling of troubling dreams. Harry had a sudden urge to smooth it away, to take away every fragment of Draco's worries, until there was nothing left for him to take. It was an urge he had experienced often lately, dating back to the day he first noticed something was wrong with Draco.

Draco appeared tired all the time, and more than once he was reprimanded by the professors for falling asleep in class. The sharpness in his grey eyes had all but disappeared, replaced by a dull weariness that would not go away. It stirred something in Harry every time he looked upon Draco's languish figure, and he found himself suddenly afraid -- afraid for Draco. Harry chucked it up as his insomnia-ridden mind talking, but no amount of rationalization could stop the fluttering in his stomach whenever he laid eyes on this brat of a boy, nor could it prevent him from continuing his midnight detour to the library.

For many nights Harry had found himself sneaking into the library after hours. And every time, he found Draco there, sitting before the same table, facing the same bookshelf, books and parchment strewn on the table in the same manner of disarray. Sometimes Draco seemed to be furiously catching up on his homework, but most of the time he simply slept while Harry watched.

Harry wondered if Draco had cast a curse on him without his knowledge, or if Draco had slipped him some mysterious potion while he was not looking. Otherwise, why would Harry do something as sickeningly sentimental as watching someone sleep? And that _someone_ was Draco Malfoy no less.

Perhaps he had fallen into an alternate universe, which could definitely explain the surrealism of the whole situation. This train of thought made Harry want to bang his head on the table in frustration, or drown himself in a glass of firewhiskey. Either method would result in a splitting headache, but Harry could live with that, if only he could, for a moment, actually pass out and get some rest. Perhaps then his hopelessly tangled mind would finally make some sense.

However, when he turned his gaze back to the slumbering boy before him, any resolve he possessed had all but dispersed, like snow being melted away by the cruel sun. Heaving a sigh, he discarded his invisibility cloak and moved closer to Draco, until he was hovering over Draco in an oddly protective stance. Then cautiously, without waking Draco, Harry placed a light kiss on Draco's temple, before whispering the incantation for the sleeping charm.

He found this spell in a book as he was researching for ways to deal with his sleeplessness. Although the spell did not work on him, it worked perfectly when he cast it on Draco. He did not want to run the risk of Draco waking up and finding him there. He would never let Draco know what went on during these midnight rendezvous, when dreams and reality collided in a spectacular explosion of illusory fireworks. The hazy moon would be his sole witness, the silent companion who would guard his secret for eternity.

Sitting across from Draco, Harry noted with a hint of satisfaction that the frown on Draco's face had vanished. And there he sat for a long time, watching Draco sleep and thinking of nothing in particular. A sense of comfort and warmth flowed into his heart like chocolate melting on his tongue, and he found himself yielding to its irresistible lure.

If anyone were to look in on Harry right now, they would be surprised to see the faint smile on Harry's face and the bright glow in his eyes as he watched over Draco, oblivious to the world and everything else around him. The world fell away until nothing was left but the two boys, one asleep, one awake, sitting across from each other amidst dusty old books and looming bookshelves.

Softly Harry whispered to Draco, his lips twisted into a wry smile that tasted almost bittersweet in his mouth, "Sleep my sleep for me, Draco."

* * * * * * *

__

_To be continued..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Somnus is the Roman equivalent of Hypnos, the god of sleep. It seems fitting since the theme of this story is sleep (and the library). Thank you very much for reading.


	2. Second Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the maze of dusty books and looming bookcases, Harry is gazing at the sylphlike boy he loves to hate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and its characters are not mine.

The arched windows were painted various shades of indigo, bringing a tint of twilight into the candlelit confines of the silent library. Within this maze of scholastic archive, few students remained as dusk gave way to night. Those who fancied an evening visit to the library were either regular visitors who regarded the library as their second home, or infrequent trespassers who were panicking over the looming deadline for their homework. However, Harry Potter of the courageous Gryffindor House did not fall under either category.

Loitering before bookshelves that housed books on astronomy and astrology, Harry was not, for all his pretence appeared to suggest, looking for books. Instead, he was gazing through the gaps between various large prints to the next aisle of equally tall bookshelves, before which stood the sylphlike figure of Draco Malfoy, who was engrossed in a small book bound in fading navy blue leather.

 _Stalking_ was not exactly what Harry would describe himself as doing right now, but other people might beg to differ. _Worried_ was not quite the word Harry looked for in describing how he felt either; he supposed _uneasy_ would be a better word.

Only this afternoon, Draco fell unconscious in Potions class; it took the professor nearly ten minutes to wake him up.

In those tantalising minutes that stretched into aeon, Harry had the strangest sensation that his pulse seemed to both quicken and slow down at the same time. It frightened him to see how still Draco's sleeping form was, as if life had already departed from him. When at last Draco raised his drowsy eyes at the baffled professor, Harry felt great relief washing over him and air rushing back into his lungs.

Hence, here he was, watching Draco from behind a row of bookshelves like a poorly trained spy who barely made the grade. Strands of blond fell upon Draco's translucent face in graceful disarray, but they could not obscure those cloudy grey eyes that were scanning the pages in strained concentration. Draco looked even more worn out than before his supposed _nap_ in Potions class.

When Draco returned the book to its former place, Harry randomly pulled out a book from the shelf, pretending he was busily searching for something. A muffled clatter of books bouncing against each other prompted Harry to steal a look, and instantly he found himself staring at the frowning face of one Draco Malfoy. It was embarrassing beyond relief, and hastily Harry shot back the panic that was threatening to smother him.

"What are you doing here, Potter?" Draco asked, his eyes narrowed in mild annoyance, but his voice sounded tired.

"Eh, just looking something up for, eh, Astronomy," Harry said weakly as he felt a flutter in his stomach that had become all too common a reaction whenever he laid eyes on Draco. Belatedly he wondered why he felt the need to offer an explanation -- an excuse, Harry thought resignedly to himself -- to Draco, while completely ignoring the fact that he no longer took Astronomy classes.

Eyeing the book in Harry's hand with a jaded look, Draco pointed out flatly, "That's an astrology book you are holding. Honestly, you are the worst liar I've ever met." Ordinarily such a statement would sound like an insult to Harry's ear, but it was delivered in such an unenthusiastic manner that it sounded more like a plain, simple remark.

Harry would rather Draco jeer at him or insult him or make fun of him than to hear this unnerving monotone; but it seemed Draco lack the energy to be irritated with him. This train of thought made Harry's stomach lurch unpleasantly. More than anything else, he wanted his rival to return to his former, despicable self. Perhaps then Harry would finally be able to escape from the confusing labyrinth his sleep-deprived mind had dropped him into.

"So," Harry tried to say as offhandedly as he could, but his act came off as rather unconvincing, "what's the matter with you? Falling asleep in class several days in a row. Has something been keeping you up at night?" Of course Harry knew what Draco had been doing at night, but he could not possibly divulge this particular fact to Draco without raising an alarm.

A dark look akin to wariness flashed across Draco's face; those dull grey eyes of his were filled with suspicion. "Why should you care? It's none of your business."

It did not take as much effort as Harry thought for words to flow out of his mouth. "I know it's not my business, but I'm curious. Who knows? Maybe you are plotting for world domination."

"Is that all you can come up with? World domination?" Draco snorted and retorted in an oddly lifeless tone. "How blase. Can't you come up with something a little more original? Or perhaps that empty head of yours cannot process much more than that? Well, you know what they say about bravery and intelligence: they don't mix."

Fuming, Harry took back what he had said about Draco being vulnerable, though he admitted it was not Draco's best attempt at taunting him. What should he do? Should he throw back his own sarcastic reply at Draco? Or should he just shut Draco up with a curse or a punch or -- as his lethargic mind suggested a little too eagerly -- something a bit more unexpected? Both options had their merits, but seeing the obvious sign of weariness on Draco's pallid face, Harry could not bring himself to speak scathing words. And as tempting as it was to go with the latter option, the solid cherrywood bookshelf standing in between was a great obstacle Harry was not ready to tackle.

In the end, his instinct won out. "Well, I just thought you might be sick. You haven't been looking well lately." Words flew out of his mouth before he could take them back; he felt heat rising to his cheeks as he realised what his words probably sounded like.

And it appeared he was not the only one who was surprised. Draco blinked several times in confusion, as though wondering if he had heard it right. His lips parted as if he was about to say something, but in the next beat he closed his mouth and stared intently at something on the ground.

"Well, I'm going now." Draco grabbed his school bag from the floor. "You can go back to do whatever it was you were doing." With that Draco strolled out of the maze while Harry watched on. The usual confidence in Draco's movement had all but disappeared; there was something about his slouching posture that brought a pang in Harry's chest as though someone was tugging at his beating heart.

Closing the book he had pretended to read, Harry carelessly stuffed it back on the shelf, unintentionally misplacing the astrology book in the astronomy section. He felt almost as tired as Draco appeared to be, for it was close to four weeks since he had any decent sleep. Nonetheless, he managed to hide his condition; he did not want others to worry about him. There were more important things to deal with now that the war had commenced, and his own well-being was hardly on Harry's list of priorities.

Letting out a sigh, Harry was about to leave when he caught sight of a small bottle of emerald green liquid on the shelf, where only moments before Draco had stood in front of. Without a second thought he hurried around the bookshelves to retrieve the bottle, and ran out of the library with the librarian's disapproving look chasing his back.

The corridor had darkened considerably as night made an entrance in her best velvet gown. Several students were loitering about, but nowhere in the firelit corridor could Harry find the languish silhouette he had come to know so well.

Out of curiosity, Harry held the bottle to the light. Under the orange firelight, the liquid appeared tinted with a dash of gold, a shade of hazel green reminiscent of cat's eyes. Against his better judgement -- Harry suspected he had left it somewhere in the monstrous maze that was his bemused mind -- he opened the bottle, and an intoxicating whiff of sweetness mingled with bitterness greeted him. The scent was vaguely familiar, but he could not place where he might have encountered it before.

After carefully replacing the lid, he put the bottle into his pocket, taking care not to break it by accident. He would return it to its rightful owner later, that is, if Draco was indeed the rightful owner.

Distracted, he allowed his legs to carry him along the familiar path back to the Gryffindor tower. In his mind, the scene in the library was played out once more in minute detail. Fleetingly Harry pondered what would have happened if those bookshelves had not been standing in his way.

* * * * * * *

When Harry returned to the crowded Gryffindor tower, he found that many of his fellow Gryffindors had yet to turn in for the night. His friend, one Hermione Granger, was sitting in a corner, studying diligently as always, while Ron Weasley was playing chess with his sister, Ginny Weasley. Judging by the bickering pieces on the checkered board, it seemed Ginny held out relatively well against Ron.

Unceremoniously throwing himself on the chair beside Hermione's, Harry remarked, "I didn't know Ginny could play chess so well."

"She told me her grandfather used to play chess with her when Ron wasn't around," Hermione replied while poring over a heavy tome and taking meticulous notes. "Did you find what you were looking for in the library?"

 _If only she knew what I was really looking for,_ Harry mused to himself before speaking aloud, "Yeah, I suppose." It was then that an idea struck him, and he pulled out the bottle from his pocket. "Do you know what this is?"

Eyeing the bottle in Harry's hand, Hermione took the bottle and examined the swirling liquid critically like a scientist observing a new specimen. After pulling out the stopper, she took a tentative sniff.

"It's hard to tell just by looking at it, although I suspect it might be some kind of wakefulness potion." The colour of the liquid had somehow deepened into forest green. "Strange, I have never seen a potion that can change colour _after_ it is concocted." Turning to Harry once more, she asked with a contemplative frown on her face, "Where did you find it?"

"In the library, on one of the bookshelves." Harry had little choice but to reply, even though he conveniently neglected to mention to whom this potion most likely belonged to.

"Perhaps it's a Potions project by one of the seventh year," Hermione said. As an afterthought, she conjured an identical bottle with her wand before pouring several drops of the potion into the empty bottle. "I will look into it." After sealing the two bottles with a delicate touch rivalling the most precise of craftsmen, she gave the original back to Harry.

"Thanks, Hermione." Harry smiled weakly, all the while hoping beyond hope that the ever inquisitive Hermione would not interrogate him once she found out what the potion was for.

* * * * * * *

The ancient clock tower struck twelve chimes that echoed across dark mountains and into the vast blackness of the midnight sky. Inside the castle that never completely sinks into sweet oblivion, those who had yet to embrace Morpheus' magic could hear those soothing bell tolls that spelled of calmer times.

High up on the top floor of the Gryffindor tower, Harry sat awake in his warm bed, studying the Marauder's Map with his wand lit; his fellow roommates had long since succumbed to the seductive summon of Nyx. The pale blue glow emitted from the tip of his wand mirrored the moonlight that had crept into the room through the windows; it gave off the illusion that he had conjured moonlight of his own.

Spidery lines filled the whole of the tattered parchment, with a handful of dotted figures sauntering about, but the only one that caught Harry's eye was the little figure labelled _Draco Malfoy,_ currently remaining stationary in the Slytherin dormitory. A pang of disappointment welled up in Harry; it appeared Draco would not be attending their little rendezvous in the library, the midnight rendezvous Draco knew nothing about. Then again, Harry supposed Draco needed the sleep, especially after that episode in Potions class.

After picking up the bottle from the bedside table, he idly swirled the liquid around. The potion had changed into a translucent green, a green that was, had anyone else been awake to witness it, the same shade of green as Harry's green irises.

Driven by impulse, he opened the bottle and held it to his nose. The same faint whiff of bittersweet trickled out to greet him -- a scent that reminded him of the strange, otherworldly creature he encountered under the luminous candlelight within the dusty maze of the library, where time stood still as though it was encased in a crystal sphere that could be shattered all too easily.

* * * * * * *

__

_To be continued..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Now here's a study of inactivity where nothing much happens. The story won't actually pick up until after the next chapter, if my calculations are correct. Please forgive me if you find this to be very slow-going as compared to some of my other writings; I treat this piece as a vacation for the mind: fluffy and whimsical. Morpheus is the god of dreams and Nyx is the goddess of night. Thank you very much reading.


	3. Third Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> During a chance midnight tea party, Harry discovers Draco is not as oblivious as he appears to be, but the realization might come too late when Draco's secret begins to unravel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and its characters are not mine.

A world of turquoise deepened into a sea of lime, before a blurry figure moved into Harry Potter's line of vision. The figure was stretched like the survivor of a particularly vicious battle of tug-of-war. Being filtered by a film of transparent green, the moving blot looked like a sad refuge from one of Hercules' Labours.

Moving the bottle filled with swirling green potion away from his sight, Harry was once again granted the view of the cluttered kitchen, the layout of which was a carbon copy of the Great Hall above: five long tables sitting at exactly the same spot and angle as their doppelganger upstairs. Pots and pans cluttered about the walls like mountains made of brass, and a large brick fireplace was burning merrily at the far end. The kitchen could only be described as orderly chaotic, yet as an alluring whiff of baking goods filled the air, it brought to mind a sense of nostalgia for a childhood long since past.

It was well past midnight, and the waning crescent was lethargically gliding across the slumbering sky. Creatures of the day lay in their peaceful beds, dreaming of what only they themselves would ever know, while creatures of the night came out and claimed this quiet earth as theirs until the first ray of sunlight reached beyond the horizon. Yet, Harry was neither a creature of the day nor a creature of the night, for sleep to him had become a mirage that had never existed in his world.

And here he sat on the bench before the long table, with several dishes of mouth-watering pastries and a steaming cup of hot chocolate to keep him company. It was a feast of sugar and spice that would surely satisfy Hansel and Gretel's wildest dream, but Harry felt an odd hollow inside him even at the face of such sweet delight.

"Is Harry Potter sure he doesn't want anything else?" Dobby the liberated house-elf asked as he cast his large, expressive eyes on Harry's face. "Harry Potter looks very tired. Maybe Dobby can make something for you? Just tell Dobby, and Dobby will get it for you."

 _How about some sleep, or perhaps a certain someone who used to be your young master?_ Harry thought absentmindedly as he took in a spoonful of Devil's Food cake.

It took several heartbeats for his sleep-deprived mind to finally catch on to what he had been thinking of. He supposed he ought to feel completely mortified by such unthinkable musing, yet he could not bring his dazed self to muster the energy needed to curse or scream or both.

Nevertheless, a far too hopeful voice in his head wondered innocently if Dobby might actually bring him what he truly yearned for had Harry told him.

When he noticed Dobby was still looking expectantly at him, Harry figured it best not to test his theory -- he had no way of knowing what kind of disaster might await him. "A cup of tea would be nice, thanks," Harry replied with an encouraging smile, all the while rolling the small vial around in his palm.

Immediately a broad smile lit up Dobby's face, and he squealed cheerfully, "Of course, Harry Potter! I will make you the best cup of tea!" And with that, he skipped away eagerly to prepare tea, his hat wobbling dangerously at his every movement. It was impossible to dislike Dobby, even if he had the strangest taste in clothes.

However, if Dobby could tell something was wrong with Harry, then it was entirely possible that others had noticed as well. Nervousness came unbidden to his mind as Harry contemplated the possibility that Ron and Hermione had known of his nightly stroll. All too well could he imagine what would happen if his midnight detour to the library were made known -- something akin to the re-emergence of the Loch Ness Monster, he reckoned.

A creak from the entrance of the kitchen startled Harry out of his reverie, and reflexively he stuffed the vial back into his pocket. The sturdy oak door slid open with a squeaking sound reminiscent of a scene from a horror film, but it was not Frankenstein's monster or Count Dracula hiding behind the door. Harry's heart skipped several beats faster as he watched a certain familiar someone with moonlit complexion and quicksilver tongue languidly stroll into the cosy kitchen.

Draco Malfoy stopped dead on his track when he saw Harry sitting by one of the tables, his wearied grey eyes narrowed conspicuously. "It seems I keep running into you all over Hogwarts. You are not stalking me, are you?" Draco asked blankly, his tone curiously devoid of the accusation his words carried.

While it did not stray far from the truth, right now Harry could safely say that such was not the case -- not that such thought could comfort the churning in his stomach. "I'm just here to grab something to eat."

Dispassionately eyeing the assortment of biscuits and cookies and cakes on the polished table, Draco remarked sarcastically, a tone that Harry never thought he would dearly miss, "Oh, I can see that. No wonder why all the Gryffindors are exhibiting manic tendency. All the sugar goes straight into your brain."

Gritting his teeth slightly in irritation, Harry opted for a strategic retreat instead. "So I take it you don't like sweet very much." That Harry already knew from his daily observation, but he could not very well reveal that to Draco without incriminating himself.

"I'm not addicted to sugar, if that's what you meant," Draco replied before sitting down at a spot a little away from Harry. It surprised Harry, for he was certain Draco would simply turn on his heels and leave.

As if following a theatrical cue, two house-elves appeared before Draco, carrying a silver tray containing a handsome tea set and a plate of scones. With such efficient manner as befitting of the Hogwarts house-elves, they set up a place for him with the ease of two skillful musicians weaving together a piece of music. Draco did not even raise his eye at them, but merely poured himself a cup of tea.

Pale with sickness Draco appeared to be, with hollow cheeks and shadowed eyes and black robe hanging upon his thin frame. Harry thought he could glimpse a certain unguardedness about Draco that he had rarely seen before, as though Draco was too drained to put on his usual haughty facade; it brought forth a transient yet intense pang in Harry's heart.

A soft clatter off to the side informed Harry that Dobby had come back with the tea, but as he turned to smile gratefully at Dobby for his trouble, he saw the anxious look on house-elf's face. It was then that Harry remembered it would not be a good idea for Draco to see Dobby.

"Thanks," Harry whispered to Dobby, before taking the tray from Dobby and placing it on the table.

All Dobby could manage was a nervous smile that looked more like a wince, an expression Harry found curious. But before he could so much as open his mouth to ask, Dobby had hurriedly retreated to his rank with the rest of the house-elves, leaving Harry to fend for himself.

Tentatively Harry stole a glance at Draco's direction, only to find Draco looking pensively at him, then at Dobby. Although there was not a hint of recognition on Draco's face, Harry had a disturbing feeling that Draco was not as oblivious as he appeared to be.

"You do have a tendency to find admirers in the strangest place," Draco commented offhandedly as he cast his eye on the scones that were baked a sunlight gold, before spreading some butter on one of the them.

"And you have a tendency to talk more than you should," Harry said distractedly as he watched Draco's lily white hand bringing the freshly baked scone to those oddly enticing lips. Although Harry did not feel the need to be jealous of a piece of dough, he found himself unable to divert his gaze from those parted lips.

"Perhaps you just don't talk enough," Draco smoothly replied before picking up the porcelain cup, the colour of which matched perfectly with Draco's translucent skin, "since it looks like not even your friends know you are suffering from insomnia."

A flash of shock, like a thunderbolt from the land of the gods, rained down on Harry. How did Draco know about his sleep disturbance? Surely Harry had not given himself away; and he had made every necessary precaution to prevent Draco from knowing about all those midnight rendezvous.

The expression on Harry's face must have been very obvious indeed, for Draco said in half-jest that was suspiciously lacking in malice, "And judging by the look on your face, I assume I have guessed correctly."

When his mind at last recovered some semblance of composure, Harry asked, "How did you know that? My insomnia, I mean."

Was it his imagination or had those stormy pupils of Draco's turned a tint sharper? "I'm not blind, and the signs are blatantly obvious," Draco responded in a lazy drawl before taking a sip of his tea.

Odd though it might seem, Harry felt his pulse quicken at Draco's word; never had he thought Draco would notice the sign of sleeplessness in him. Hope, however, Harry had never held, for he knew Draco would never accept what he had to give. Therefore, watching and listening would be what Harry would do.

Like now, sitting slightly apart from Draco, Harry gazed at Draco, who was contemplating the content of the cup. A hint of a smile unexpectedly crept onto Draco's lips; and Harry found his heartbeat grew several tempos faster and his breath utterly stolen away.

Grey eyes turned to regard him in bemusement; and instantly Harry felt as though he had woken from a dream, only to dive into another dream that seemed real yet surreal at the same time. "Your tea is getting cold," Draco remarked while placing his cup on the saucer with a soft clink.

Sensing his cheeks slightly inflamed, Harry poured himself a cup of tea to hide his unease. Without a second thought he drank it, only to be immediately assaulted by a surprisingly delightful blend of sweet, sour, and bitter. Though never a connoisseur of tea, Harry could taste a splash of lemon and honey in this special concoction, and he found himself savouring its exotic flavour.

If someone were to walk into the kitchen right now, they would surely be surprised by the scene before them: two notorious rivals drinking tea in companionable silence. Although, when Harry thought about it, rival was no longer the word he could call Draco by -- not that he fully comprehended what Draco truly was to him yet.

Throwing a fleeting glance at Draco's direction, Harry began, "So, are you going to tell anyone what's wrong with you?"

There was a hint of defensiveness in Draco's voice. "Seeing as you have not told anyone else of your own predicament either, you are hardly the person to advise me on that matter."

Harry could not suppress the upward tug at the corner of his mouth; he expected nothing less from Draco's exasperating self. "Yeah, I suppose," Harry answered before pushing the plate of ginger biscuits towards Draco. "You can have these. They aren't that sweet."

As though meaning to rebuke Harry, Draco opened his mouth, but no words came out. Pressing his lips tightly together as if debating with himself, Draco nonetheless accepted a biscuit from the plate, and silently nibbled on it.

Deeming it a good sign that Draco had not uttered any complaint yet, Harry said smilingly, "See? It's not that bad, is it?"

Slowly Draco met Harry's gaze with a strange expression upon his worn face, and with a peculiar note of indecision as Harry had not before heard of, he asked, "Why are you doing this?"

Such vague question could spawn many different responses, but Harry suspected he already understood the true meaning behind Draco's query. "Can't I? Or, shouldn't I?" Harry replied quietly with a question of his own, his eyes staring deeply into the cloudy depths that were Draco's eyes.

Dull grey eyes seemed oddly downcast; pearly white teeth chewed ruminatively upon pale lip. "Forget it." Draco stood up sluggishly and moved towards the door, leaving the food and drink largely untouched.

A sliver of disappointment crept slyly into Harry's mind. "Eh, all right," and after a brief moment of hesitation, Harry added, "Goodnight."

Draco halted for a tense heartbeat that felt like an aeon, before he continued on his way without a word. Ever so slowly his figure was swallowed up by the gaping hole of darkness and into the twisting labyrinth of Hogwarts castle, the architecture of which would surely make Daedalus weep in envy.

Harry supposed he was being foolish, for nothing would ever come of it. Then again, this was the time of day when fish could fly in the air and stars could fall from heaven. It was that bewitching time when this world and the next fused into one, when a god fell in love with a mortal, when a maiden felt drawn to a beast, and when a boy imagined capturing moonlight in his hands.

Compelled by the impulse that had proven fatal to many, Harry reached for the half-filled cup Draco had left behind. The swirling liquid was a beautiful shade of burgundy, reminiscent of the sinking sunset. Contemplating its colour and floral aroma as Draco had done not too long ago, Harry drank deeply from the cup.

Cradling the fragile ceramic in his hands, he allowed the warm bitterness to flow into his throat, yet it was the sensation of his lips pressed upon warm porcelain that brought a flutter in his stomach -- never had he thought porcelain would taste so sweet.

* * * * * * *

When the waning moon was nearing the full height of its nightly climb, Harry, hidden beneath his treasured invisibility cloak, once more haunted the dark corridors of Hogwarts castle. A relatively peaceful night though it may be, Harry found himself growing restless, his footfall quickened against his wish.

A familiar scent of cedar mingled with some unnamed fragrance filled the air, and he hastened his pace, his heart overtaken by apprehension.

As he rounded a corner to where the bronze statue of a sphinx sat staring off into the distance, his foot abruptly caught on something, and he fell heavily upon a soft but bony object. As the musky taste of cedar assaulted his senses, he was suddenly afraid of what he knew for certain he would find.

Moving carefully away from _it,_ he pulled out his wand and, trembling slightly, called forth the ethereal light. Beneath the wavering ghostly light lay a figure on the ground: robe dark as the midnight sky and skin pale as the waning moon, the very image of a fallen Icarus. Beside the figure were shards of broken glass and a pool of bottle green scattered upon the unforgiving stone floor, filling the air with a faint aroma of eerie bittersweet that summoned to Harry's mind a disturbing sense of deja vu.

* * * * * * *

Night was close to breaking by the time Harry stepped through the threshold and into the warm embrace of the Gryffindor common-room; yet no warmth could reach his core. An unpleasant weight had settled in his stomach, while air had departed from his lungs to some place faraway, leaving him with nothing but suffocating dread.

In his mind's eye, he could well conjure the image of Draco's prone form lying on the hospital bed, ghostly pallor contrasted sharply with a blanket of clay yellow. So still was Draco that had Harry not seen the slight rising and falling of his chest, he would be deluded to think Draco had already gone beyond the veil.

Shaking the image out of his mind, he was about to head to the stone staircase when he saw a familiar looking girl in cream yellow sweater sleeping on the sofa by the cheerfully ablaze fireplace, her head resting on the armrest in a position that would surely give her a stiffened neck in the morning. Books and notes were scattered across the table before her like a miniature battleground.

Changing his course, Harry walked over to Hermione Granger as quietly as he could, and then shook her shoulder lightly. "Hey, Hermione. Go to bed. You can leave your homework to tomorrow."

Some moments had passed before Hermione finally stirred, and she lifted her head to stare uncomprehendingly at Harry for some seconds. Once she realised with a start who had woken her up, she immediately seized Harry's arm and forcefully pulled him down to sit beside her.

"Harry, you didn't drink the potion you've found in the library, did you?" she demanded while gripping Harry's arm so tightly that his arm grew numb; but Harry hardly cared, for his entire attention was now focused on her.

"No," Harry replied as a sense of foreboding loomed over him like the Fates who loomed over one's life. "Why do you ask? Is something wrong?"

Those hazel eyes of Hermione's stared straight into Harry's forest green, and in trepidation Hermione spoke slowly, "The potion you've found is poison."

* * * * * * *

__

_To be continued..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Finally this is going somewhere, and a rather unexpected somewhere, I hope? Daedalus is the architect who designed the Labyrinth that was used to imprison the Minotaur. Icarus is Daedalus' son, famous for wearing a pair of waxen wings and flying too close to the sun. Thank you for reading.


	4. Fourth Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Harry delves deeper into Draco's secret, he is about to come upon an unsettling truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and its characters are not mine.

The unadorned oak double door looked decidedly forbidding at night. Had Bluebeard's secret chamber existed in real life, the door leading to his gruesome gallery of murdered wives would probably look something like this. Nevertheless, the door that stood stubbornly in Harry's way was never locked, hence there was never a need for a key or even a password like _open sesame._ After all, to the students attending Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the hospital wing was one of the few places they avoid if they could help it.

Grabbing the plain door handle, Harry slowly pushed the door open, and the door, as though displeased to be woken from its sleep, whined loudly. For a brief moment, Harry froze and held his breath, afraid that someone might come by to see what was going on. But his fear was unfound, for he heard no more sound after the initial creak from the door. Exhaling in relief, Harry slipped into the hospital wing and closed the door behind him.

Dimly lit was the hospital wing, with nothing more than a single lamp giving off feeble light from atop one of the mahogany cabinets by the wall. Brass-framed hospital beds were lined up along the length of the room, their coverlets uniformly white and crisp, not a single corner out of place. If Harry were to exercise his vivid imagination, he might be inclined to think he was in some kind of military facility.

By the farthest right corner of the hospital wing, a set of off-white curtains surrounded one of the beds, and it was to that corner that Harry's entire attention was focused upon. After casting off the invisibility cloak, Harry moved as quietly as he could towards the closed-off area.

When he stood before the curtains that were tinted a lonely sepia, he took a peek inside like a little child stealing a look inside a supposedly haunted mansion. He half-expected the patient currently occupying the bed to jump up and yell at him, but to his disappointment, only silence and stillness greeted him. Stepping into the enclosed space, he lit his way with his wandlight. When he noticed the small lamp on the nightstand, however, he decided to do the most sensible thing anyone in his situation would do.

Once the lamp was glowing a soft, golden light, Harry could see clearly the frail boy lying on the hospital bed. Draco did not look any better than the last time Harry saw him -- which was two nights ago, since Madam Pomfrey had opted to remain in her ruling domain last night -- but at least he did not look any worse. If Harry did not know better, he would be inclined to think Draco was merely asleep, except no human beings could stay so still in sleep.

After he casually draped the invisibility cloak over the iron railings of the bed, Harry sat cautiously on the bed and gazed at Draco as was his unhealthy habit of late. It was pitiful, he supposed; the only time he could watch Draco to his heart's desire was when Draco was unaware of his presence. He felt like a thief, who could only steal moments such as this, moments that would not be his otherwise.

Draco's face took on a pallor that not even the warm glow of the candlelight could cure; even his blond locks had lost some of their lustre. Nevertheless, the sharpness of his features remained, granting some solace to Harry's troubled mind; but after what Hermione had imparted to him, everything else seemed to be no more than empty comfort.

Hermione's revelation on the mystery potion that had been in Draco's possession was unsettling to say the least. Only for two purposes would a poison be ever used: to kill someone or to kill yourself. Both explanations were equally grim for obvious reason; Harry could only hope that neither was the case. Nevertheless, the uncertain condition Draco was presently in appeared to suggest the unthinkable.

Noticing the bleak, dreary path his sleep-deprived mind had inadvertently ventured into, he vigorously shook his head to ward off his dark thoughts. Brooding over Draco's motive would not help; he would deal with it once Draco woke up from his coma.

_If he wakes up,_ Harry thought with a pang, and without knowing precisely why he did what he did, he tentatively reached out to touch Draco's face. The sliver of warmth emitted from Draco's skin sent a pleasant shiver down Harry's spine and fluttering butterflies to Harry's stomach. It felt as though a Titan had tilted the world to one side, causing him to slip and slide and stumble downwards into the fearful unknown.

Harry was no longer sure what he was thinking, or if he was thinking at all. Propelled by something inside him that he could not name, he inched ever closer to Draco, until he was hovering over him. The lingering scent of cedar that was so uniquely Draco's enveloped him, intoxicating him with its inherent sweetness. As a shadow of desire rose to the forefront of his mind, he could resist the temptation no more.

Placing his palms on either side of Draco's head, he lowered himself inch by inch, gradually narrowing the distance between him and those alluring lips that were silently beckoning him. Tilting his head slightly to avoid bumping into Draco, Harry slowly closed his eyes, his racing heart beating so loudly he was surprised Draco did not stir from the sound. And little by little he pressed forward, until he could nearly taste the warmth on Draco's lips--

A loud creak and a series of brisk footsteps unceremoniously snapped Harry out of the fairy tale scene where the prince was supposed to kiss the sleeping princess, and threw him back to reality. With his quick reflex as his guide, he sharply pulled away from Draco and stood up. He was about to grab his invisibility cloak when the curtains were drawn apart, and in walked Madam Pomfrey, the intimidating school matron.

There was little Harry could do but freeze in mid-movement and gawk at her. While Madam Pomfrey was less frightening as, say, a homicidal Minotaur wielding a gleaming axe, Harry's guilty conscience was working against him. It could not be helped that only some seconds ago he had tried to steal a kiss from an unconscious boy.

Raising her eyebrows at Harry, Madam Pomfrey questioned him in her usual blunt fashion, "What are you doing here? It's past curfew."

Awkwardly Harry shifted his footing; he could already sense heat rising to his face. He felt like a little boy being interrogated about what happened to all the sweets in the jar that had broken into pieces, with an empty sweet wrapping clutched tightly in his fist.

"Eh, I'm just here to see how Dr- Malfoy is doing," Harry hastily corrected himself, hoping beyond hope that Pomfrey had not noticed the slip. It was only when Pomfrey frowned at him that he realised belatedly his mistake; he should have lied about why he was here, but instead he told Pomfrey the truth.

It was some moments later when Pomfrey spoke again. "You are not allowed to wander around at this late hour, unless you have an emergency of some kind."

Although Pomfrey did not question him anymore, Harry knew he had already roused her suspicion. All Harry could say was, "I'm sorry. I'll keep that in mind."

And unfortunately for him, Pomfrey was now studying his face with piercing eyes, as though wondering whether she should trust him or not; Harry had an uncanny feeling that Pomfrey knew enough about adolescents to be sceptical about their trustworthiness in general. Nevertheless, what Pomfrey said next was something Harry was completely unprepared for. "You haven't been sleeping well, have you? How long has it been going on?"

It was so utterly unexpected that it took Harry's languid mind several seconds to process what Pomfrey had said. "A month, I think?" Harry replied weakly, having no choice but to answer.

As predicted, Pomfrey clicked her tongue in disapproval. "And you don't think there's something wrong when you can't sleep well for a month? Honestly, you should've come to me sooner."

"I thought it's going to go away on its own," Harry mumbled in a half-hearted attempt to defend himself. "And I'm feeling fine, so it's not really a big deal."

"You don't look fine, Mr Potter," Pomfrey countered clinically, before placing her hand on Harry's forehead. "And for your information, sleep disturbance can lead to weakened constitution and cognitive impairment. Delay in getting the proper treatment only makes the condition worse."

For some unknown reason, a frown had abruptly burrowed its way onto Pomfrey's brows. Without another word, she peered into Harry's eyes, as though wanting to probe his mind and find the answer she needed. Puzzled, Harry blinked several times and stared blankly at Pomfrey.

After a while, Pomfrey bit her lips thoughtfully and took Harry's wrist to measure his pulse. It seemed like half the night had passed before Pomfrey finally said, "You are running a fever."

The diagnosis surprised Harry, for he felt no different from the norm, or what constituted the norm for him nowadays. Perhaps his temperature appeared higher than usual because he was still embarrassed about being caught; but it would be even more embarrassing still if he were to tell Pomfrey that.

As if reading his mind, Pomfrey said in a tone that was meant to be stern, but came off with a hint of amusement, "And I'm certain it has nothing to do with the fact that I found you here alone with Mr Malfoy."

Pomfrey's remark made Harry completely fluster, like a chicken who was about to lose its head. And to his chagrin, he thought he saw a smile threatening to break out on Pomfrey's face. "I, er, well... I was surprised, that's all. You suddenly walked in on me... no, I mean... you surprised me, and..." Knowing full well his cheeks were now tinted with a dash of scarlet, Harry decided he had incriminated himself enough and shut his mouth.

Thankfully, Pomfrey took pity on him and did not jeer at him any further. "You are sick, and therefore I'm keeping you here. That's final."

Before Harry could so much as open his mouth to object, Pomfrey, with surprising strength, dragged him away from where Draco lay. After drawing back the curtains to conceal Draco from view once more, Pomfrey forced Harry to sit on one of the beds. Eyeing once the open-collared shirt and jeans Harry wore, she went off to rummage through the cupboard that was standing despondently by the door.

Harry wondered if he could elude the matron and escape to the safe sanctuary that was Gryffindor tower in one piece, but with Pomfrey being situated closer to the door than he was, he doubted even his natural agility as a seeker could help him escape the iron clutches of the formidable witch.

Meanwhile, Pomfrey came back with a set of flannel pyjamas, which she unceremoniously dumped onto Harry's lap. "Get change," was all she said before she disappeared into her office to search for whatever foul-tasting potion she thought would do the job, leaving Harry temporarily to his own device.

If he ever wanted to make a run for it, now would be the time. But as he cast a glance at the closed curtains, his determination quickly melted away like ice beneath the summer sun. He did not want to leave, not when Draco was here, sleeping so deeply as though dead.

Resolved to stay after all, Harry changed into the pyjamas; they were slightly too large for him, but they would have to do for now. After he draped his clothes on a chair by the bed, he suddenly remembered he had forgotten something very important: he had left his invisibility cloak on Draco's bed. Although Pomfrey must have noticed the cloak already, Harry did not want to leave his prized treasure around in plain sight. Quickly he went to retrieve it, then stuffed it beneath the nightstand by his assigned bed.

It was not a moment too soon; as soon as he straightened, Pomfrey returned with a glass and a bottle of azure blue potion that seemed to glow even in this dimness. Obediently sitting on the bed once more, Harry watched Pomfrey pour the silvery liquid into the glass. When Pomfrey handed the glass half full of misty blue potion to him, he warily accepted it and stared at the glass; it was like staring at a piece of the sky contained in a glass.

Apparently noticing Harry's hesitation, Pomfrey said in a voice that left very little room for argument, "Either you take the potion on your own, or I'll force it down your throat."

And yet, even at the face of Pomfrey's threat, Harry felt a strange reluctance to drink the potion; perhaps the idea that Draco had been carrying poison with him had made Harry think twice about drinking any foreign potion. "I'm all right, Madam Pomfrey. I don't need potions or anything. I just need some rest."

"And this is going to help you sleep," Pomfrey said pointedly. "In any case, you should've taken better care of yourself in the first place. Then we wouldn't have this conversation right now."

Recognising a lost cause when he saw one, Harry eventually drained the potion, though not without a small ounce of trepidation. Compared to the various healing potions he was forced to drink in the past, this potion did not taste half bad. It reminded him of sea breeze with a faint tang of saltiness, and of something else he could not quite place.

"Now go to sleep, and no sneaking around," Pomfrey said as she took the empty glass from him. "We'll see how you are doing in the morning."

The effect of the potion was instantaneous; the feeling of drowsiness he had sorely missed for some time washed over him like gentle waves. Words of protest died in his mouth; and dazedly Harry crawled under the sheet with some help from Pomfrey.

As his mind began to wander into the foggy maze of half-slumber, words tumbled out of his mouth before his mind fully registered what he was saying, "Will Draco be all right?"

It became increasingly difficult to keep his eyes open, therefore he did not see the slightly pained look flashing briefly across Pomfrey's face. "I don't know. There's no telling what will happen to him."

Desperately Harry clung onto consciousness, a brief moment long enough to ask one more question. His voice was riddled with sleep by now, and to his ear, his voice sounded only marginally coherent, "What's wrong with him?"

And Pomfrey's voice became more and more distant, as though she was speaking from far beneath the surface of the sea or from high above the unreachable sky. "We are looking into it. It's possible that he was poisoned, but we are not ruling out the possibility of him suffering from some kind of a curse..."

Harry did not hear the rest of Pomfrey's speculation, for he had drifted off into the world where Hypnos governs with a misty velvet glove. In his shallow slumber, he vaguely noticed the faint light to his right was extinguished, and then there were footsteps leading away from him and the sound of the door being closed quietly. It would be awhile later when he thought he sensed someone standing by his bedside with a wand trained at him, but soon the presence vanished without a trace. In his state of half-awareness, he could not be certain whether it was a dream or reality.

Sleep would not stay with him for long, however, and soon Harry found himself awaken by the pitter-patter of rain beating against the windows.

Looking at his watch, he realised he had dozed off for a little more than an hour. And yet, he felt neither restful nor rejuvenated; it was as though his hour of supposed sleep had merely been stolen by a thief named Cronus. He could not claim to be overly surprised, for he had experimented with various spells and potions alike whose common effect was to induce sleep, and yet, sleep would not come to him. Fleetingly he felt a dull ache gradually spreading through his body, as though reminding him of his own ailment.

After rubbing the haziness from his eyes with the back of his hand, he reached for his glasses and put them on. The scenery focused itself once more, but the single candle aglow atop the mahogany cabinet could not chase away the lurking shadows that dissolved the sharp edges of this world into blurry curves.

Half in daze still, he sat up and looked beyond the latticed windows to behold the sky of a depressing pallid red; and reflected upon the water-drenched glass was his own pale, tired face. Without a second thought, he turned away from his reflection and gazed at the screen of curtains. They were like impenetrable walls, and on the other side of which lay the boy whom he could never reach. No matter that he was willing to throw aside the facade of denial he could no longer hide behind, there would always be a wall between him and Draco.

Heaving a deep sigh, he allowed his instinct to guide his movement, and soon he found himself sitting beside Draco on the hospital bed once more. He did not turn on the lamp, however, for he preferred to remain in the comforting embrace of the night. Leaning back against the iron railings, he gazed at the silent silhouette, his dark green eyes beheld nothing but the boy whom he was supposed to hate. Even as unease danced beyond his periphery, he felt a sliver of tranquillity all the same.

Nevertheless, memory of Pomfrey's words floated to the surface of his mind and shattered the peaceful moment. Pomfrey had openly admitted she had been unable to diagnose Draco's symptoms, which led to various frightening possibilities, one in particular he did not even want to contemplate. It was odd, however, that Pomfrey had suggested the possibility of Draco suffering from a curse, which appeared to counter what Harry had discovered.

Reaching back to his memory for the past few weeks, Harry recalled that it had been a month ago when he began to notice the lethargy in Draco; perhaps something had happened to Draco before that time, which led to the mystery malady Draco was currently afflicted with.

This train of thought made Harry pause for several heartbeats. Had it not been a month ago that his insomnia began to manifest itself? But surely the two incidents could not be anything more than pure coincidence.

Returning to the original thread, the image of emerald green liquid swirling in a bottle reemerged from the depth of his mind; it was the very same vial that, at the present, was stored away in the breast pocket of his shirt.

Was it morbid of him to carry a vial of poison with him even after knowing its content? And yet, in a twisted kind of way, he could not help but think that by carrying the poison, he was carrying one of Draco's secrets with him. Somehow, such thought elicited a shadow of happiness in him, even if it was tinted with a hint of bitterness; for deep in his heart he knew this would be the closest to Draco he could ever get.

He could not help smiling ruefully to himself; he was letting the melancholic rain beyond the windows getting to him. Inhaling deeply the fragrance emitted from the figure lying beside him, a strong yearning reached out to him; and with but a small pause, he placed his hand lightly upon Draco's cool forehead. It was perhaps nothing more than an act of selfishness on his part, just like the many midnight rendezvous in the library, of which Draco had no knowledge of. Nonetheless, he had no thought of stopping; he wanted to act selfish for just this once, and then after that...

With a voice as soft as the quiet patter of rain outside the warm haven of this aging castle, he whispered to the sleeping boy whom he could only watch from afar, "What have you done to me, Draco?"

And there he waited for the reply that would not come, yearning for an answer and yet afraid of receiving one all the same. Sitting in semi-darkness beside this spectre-like Endymion that would never be his, he did not notice once the wand lying silently on the nightstand by the bed.

* * * * * * *

__

_To be continued..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Cronus is the god of time, among other things. Endymion is the prince whom Selene, the goddess of moon, had fallen in love with. In order to keep him by her side, she put a spell on him so that he would be asleep for eternity. This fic will take on a more sober note from now on; hopefully this doesn't scare too many of you away. Thank you very much for reading.


	5. Fifth Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A night in the hospital wing brings out the truth about the boy with moonlit complexion; and Harry must make a decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and its characters are not mine.

Upon the polished chestnut nightstand was a shiny silver tray where a handsome china tea set, clearly intended for two, was prepared; one of the cups was empty, the other half-filled with tea of the loveliest shade of sunset. Also on the tray was a plate full of colourful biscuits, the variety of which was as diverse as the colours of a rainbow. Tea that warms one's inside and biscuits that remind one of carefree childhood -- it was the perfect arrangement for a little midnight tea party.

A single everlasting candle was burning gently in the background, casting golden light upon the boy lying on the hospital bed and the boy sitting on the bed with his back against the iron railings. Occasionally there would be a rustling sound of a page being turned, or a soft sigh that could have been mistaken for the sound of the wind.

Like a needle attracted to a magnet, Harry's eyes were once again upon Draco's sleeping form. Smooth as a velvet-gloved finger, his gaze glided over the familiar angles and contours of Draco's visage, memorising every line and curve, before lingering over those slightly parted lips that looked so sinfully inviting. As his unfocused mind strayed once more to that indulgent fancy of his, Harry shook his head vigorously and kept his eyes on the book he had been trying to read for the last hour.

For the past few days, Harry was confined to the hospital wing under Madam Pomfrey's strict order. The fever Harry had somehow contracted refused to die away, no matter what kind of remedy Pomfrey attempted on him. With Pomfrey's healing skill challenged by Harry's peculiar condition, Harry had unwittingly become the test subject to her unsavoury experiment.

Had it not been the case that Draco was staying in the hospital wing as well, Harry would have scurried back to the impregnable fortress that was the Gryffindor tower, away from the mighty matron. Nevertheless, of the three days Harry remained in the hospital wing thus far, Draco had not once woken from his deep slumber.

The feeling of helplessness Harry hated above all else grew steadily inside him like Jack's beanstalk. It frustrated him that he could do nothing for Draco but watch over him like an inconsequential guardian angel -- it sounded more pleasant than being a stalker, his slightly feverish mind reasoned. And yet, he could not stop watching, for fear that if he were to take his eyes off Draco for even one brief minute, Draco would, like Orpheus' beloved Eurydice, disappear to a place he could not follow.

After being stuck in the same jumble of meaningless text for several minutes, Harry gave up at last and closed the book. It seemed he could hardly concentrate on anything for more than several minutes nowadays, Draco being the only exception. Harry supposed it was fortunate that he had a legitimate reason to be excused from class; he had a suspicion he would be completely lost several minutes into the class, like a blind mouse stumbling in a gigantic maze.

Cautiously he edged closer to where the nightstand was, all the while wrestling with the temptation to taste Draco's chapped lips; he did not want to look like those fictional vampires who attacked fair maidens in their sleep. Rigidly he turned his gaze towards the silver tray and randomly grabbed a biscuit from the plate.

The midnight snack was a gift from Dobby, though for some unfathomable reason Dobby had included Draco's portion. When Harry asked him about it, he stammered something about the duties of a house-elf before beating a hasty retreat like a frightened rabbit who had just seen a fire-breathing dragon. Harry supposed, as Draco had once informed him none too nicely, he was indeed too nosy for his own good.

Harry felt a knot in his stomach when he remembered the unplanned tea party he had with Draco in the kitchen; it felt like a long time had passed since he last spoke to Draco. While the tea was still a perfect blend of fragrant silkiness and spicy tang, and the plate full of biscuits was still a series of sweet surprises waiting to be discovered, without Draco here to share it with him, it felt oddly lacking.

Unable to suppress his impulse anymore, Harry cast his eyes on the spectre-like boy who looked preternaturally unreal beneath the candlelight, like an ethereal illusion sprung from the flame of a burning match amidst a raging winter storm. Daring himself to go further, Harry held his palm against Draco's cheek, ascertaining for himself that Draco was not about to fade away into a wisp of smoke. Draco's skin was cool beneath Harry's palm, much cooler than Harry had imagined. Harry could not help but be baffled: was he burning up again, or was Draco's body temperature lower than usual?

As Harry pondered, he saw the faintest of flicker on Draco's closed eyelids, and immediately it lifted his despondent spirit. With bated breath, he gently slapped Draco's cheek, and watched Draco struggle against the iron chains of sleep. Fair eyelashes quivered like wings, before cloudy grey eyes slowly pried open to the world of reality, where the first thing they saw was a pair of shadowed green eyes, now glowing with such delighted brilliance like cat's eyes in the dark.

Relief washed over Harry like spring shower when he saw the glimmer of recognition in Draco's eyes. "Good morning," Harry greeted Draco with a genuine smile on his face, the camouflage of enmity he was supposed to put on laid forgotten. "It's about time you wake up."

There still remained a haze of somnolence in Draco's eyes, as though he was still partially submerged in the sea of dreams. Squinting at Harry with those dazed eyes of his, Draco uttered groggily with a note of confusion, "Where am I? Why are you here?"

Hearing Draco's weak, raspy voice caused Harry's chest to tighten, but Harry would not allow himself to be easily discouraged. "You are in the hospital wing," Harry answered with deliberate light-heartedness. "You've been unconscious for five days. I bet no one sleeps as much as you do."

And then, with the delicate touch of a curator handling fragile glass, Harry helped Draco sit up while making sure he was comfortable; throughout it all Draco did not speak once. For several fleeting heartbeats, Harry lost himself in the intoxicating scent of cedar emitted from Draco, though he could not help noticing the absence of warmth. Biting his lips in unspoken distress, Harry poured a cup of tea for Draco, who accepted it after a beat.

A look bespoke of wistful nostalgia appeared on Draco's face as he sipped the tea, a look that caused Harry's pulse to quicken and his stomach to twist. Turning his jaded grey eyes to Harry once more, Draco asked in a faintly derisory tone, "You still haven't told me why you are here."

"You know how Pomfrey is. I got a slight fever, and she confined me to the hospital bed." Harry intentionally left out the reason he was on Draco's bed instead of his own, hoping beyond hope that Draco would let the matter slide.

There was a barely perceptible gleam in Draco's pupils. "Whose bed do you mean? Mine or yours?" Draco said in that plain, nonchalant tone of his, yet his words sounded almost like a careless tease.

A rush of heat flew onto Harry's cheeks as swiftly as Hermes' wings; he could only hope Draco would view the blush on his face as the unfortunate effect of the fever. In an attempt to disguise his embarrassment, Harry changed the subject. "How are you feeling?"

Was it his imagination, or did Draco's expression darken? "I've been better," Draco replied dispassionately as he contemplated the warm liquid in the cup. "You?"

"As good as can be, I suppose," Harry said vaguely, not sure if Draco honestly cared about his well-being, or if he was merely being polite. _Actually, I feel splendid now that you are mocking me again,_ Harry added absentmindedly in his head, before he realised how masochistic he sounded.

Not once suspecting the slightly indecent turn Harry's mind had somehow taken, Draco chewed on his lip as though his mind was elsewhere. It was some moments later when he exhaled deeply and asked with a note of unexpected resignation, "Did Pomfrey say anything to you? About my... condition? And about your insomnia?"

Perplexed, Harry blinked several times, but he could feel a sliver of warmth in his chest all the same. "Pomfrey wasn't sure if you were suffering from a curse or from poison, or so she told me. She didn't have much to say about my insomnia, other than dumping loads of potions down my throat -- not that any of them worked."

"Of course they wouldn't," Draco mumbled softly to himself, not once raising his head to regard Harry. "It was a curse I've cast on you, though it didn't work as it was supposed to."

Like a gong being struck in his head, Harry's mind swirled as Draco's words echoed in his head. Staring at Draco in stupor, Harry distantly heard himself say, "What are you talking about? What curse?"

The pale hand that was cradling the cup tightened until blue veins were plainly visible beneath the paper thin skin; it was the only overt sign that Draco was not as aloof as he appeared to be. In a colourless voice, Draco said, "I've been trying to kill you for the past month, Potter. When the curse didn't work, I tried to poison you instead. And I would've succeeded too if I-" Draco caught himself in time. "Never mind. At any rate, you are still alive."

Harry could not believe what Draco had said, but as he peered into Draco's face, he did not detect even one little indication of falsehood. "But I would've known if you put a curse on me, right?" Harry reasoned while trying to suppress the growing sense of dread in him. "I would've noticed _something_ if you were really trying to kill me."

"That's because I've erased your memory," Draco replied in a barely audible whisper, cementing the final nail into the coffin inscribed with the word Truth.

As a turbulence of conflicting emotions threatened to sweep him under, Harry spoke in a soft, placid voice that surprised even himself, "Why are you telling me this?"

Inclining his head to look at Harry, Draco met Harry's gaze evenly, before a ghost of a wry smile curled briefly upon his lips, a bitter smile spelling of defeat. "I might not have another chance to say it."

The implication behind Draco's words was not lost on Harry; and it scared him beyond reckoning, even more so than Draco's confession to him. "But you'll be fine, right?" Harry said frantically as he clutched a fistful of bedspread; the time for denial and pretence had long since passed. "You are awake now. You just need to tell Pomfrey everything, and she'll be able to cure you."

Not a word came out of Draco's mouth, not even a whisper; it was as though he had lost his voice. When he turned away from Harry, the spell of silence was broken. "Hate me like you always have; that's how things should be in the first place." There was a tentative pause. "It will make me feel better if you do."

The subtle rejection was not unexpected, but it still cut Harry deeply like a piece of broken glass. Even though Harry did not feel like smiling, he put on a strained smile nonetheless, for whose benefit though he could not tell. "I understand. But at least let me help you."

Eyes of moonlit silver cast a brief glance at Harry, before they returned to gazing at the porcelain cup. A slender finger absently followed the rim of the delicate china in meditation. "You are more stupid than I thought," Draco remarked in a tone bespoke of weariness. "Offering help to an enemy is foolish."

Harry felt a sad pang in his chest. Enemy -- such a simple word it was, and yet it was a word filled with vicious thorns. It pained him to hear those words; it hurt even more to know Draco was right, even though Harry could not, in all honesty, consider Draco his enemy anymore.

"Yeah, I suppose," Harry said as he fought to conceal his emotion, for the sake of his wounded self and for Draco's peace of mind. Then more firmly, he added, "But I sure as hell am not going to stand aside and watch."

"You can't save everyone, Potter," Draco countered listlessly, his dull eyes now narrowed in rumination. "The world doesn't work that way."

"Doesn't mean I can't try anyway," Harry argued while wondering if Draco had always been a pessimist, or if it was his mysterious illness speaking for him. "At least let me help."

"I don't-" But Draco never finished his sentence, for like a marionette whose strings were severed, Draco's eyes slid shut and his body slumped forward. Hastily Harry grabbed the cup that was about to tip over, and with the other arm he caught Draco.

Had Harry not been filled with immeasurable anxiety over Draco's sudden collapse, he might have enjoyed the sensation of having Draco in his arm. "Hey, don't fall asleep on me." With some difficulty he returned the cup to the nightstand, before gently lowering Draco onto the bed. Like those slumbering stone figures sculpted onto ancient sarcophagi, Draco seemed almost peaceful in his sleep, his body as cold as stone.

"Come on, wake up." Lightly Harry slapped Draco's cheek, but Draco did not stir. As the first wave of panic threatened to crush him, Harry swallowed it down as best as he could, but he could not prevent himself from shaking with apprehension.

"Don't go to sleep, Draco," Harry pleaded as he shook Draco's shoulders, his inside froze when he received not even a shadow of a response from Draco. "Stay with me, okay? Call me an idiot again. And you know what? You were right. I've been stalking you. So throw a curse at me like you always do. Please? I won't fight back... I promise..."

Suddenly Harry felt a hand on his shoulder, startling him, and instinctively he slapped it away. When he looked up, he saw the subdued figure of the headmaster of Hogwarts gazing solemnly at him with dimmed blue eyes. Distantly Harry perceived others standing behind Dumbledore, but he ignored them.

As a sliver of relief washed over Harry at the comforting presence of the headmaster, he immediately said, "Professor, Draco is..."

Wordlessly Dumbledore held out his hand, interrupting Harry in mid-sentence. Then to Harry's confusion, Dumbledore placed his hand on Harry's forehead, before doing the same to Draco. When Dumbledore withdrew his hand, the frown lingering on his brows deepened. "Harry, I must ask you to move aside so that Madam Pomfrey and Professor Snape can take a look at Mr Malfoy."

Reluctant though Harry was to leave Draco's side, he did as he was told, and was led away by Dumbledore. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Pomfrey giving him a sympathetic nod and Snape sending him an irritable sneer. However, so preoccupied was Harry that Snape's animosity towards him bounced off like water sliding off glass.

Sitting on his assigned bed with Dumbledore standing beside him, Harry watched Pomfrey and Snape examine Draco. Harry felt so cold all of a sudden, his hands trembling so badly he was sure Dumbledore could see it plainly. There was an unpleasant lurch in his stomach as though he was falling, spiralling downward into the bottomless well like some kind of fantastical nightmare.

"Harry, I need to ask you if Draco had mentioned anything in particular to you," Dumbledore inquired, jolting Harry out of his morbid musing.

For a brief moment, Harry hesitated, wondering if he should divulge to Dumbledore everything Draco had told him. However, a streak of protectiveness for Draco had woken in Harry; he did not want to involve Draco in more trouble than was necessary. "No," Harry lied. "Nothing really jumped out. He wasn't very happy to see me, but that's about it."

Harry sensed keen azure eyes studying him as though they could look past his pitiful disguise. In an attempt to avoid Dumbledore's knowing gaze, Harry stared straight ahead to where Snape and Pomfrey were arguing over the diagnosis.

"It is safe to say that unless Potter has been repeatedly poisoning Mr Malfoy, we can rule out the possibility of poisoning being the cause," Snape said in that discreetly taunting voice of his; but Harry was too numb to rise to the bait.

"And what kind of curse are you suggesting, since you are so well versed in the Dark Arts?" Pomfrey snapped back impatiently; privately Harry was thankful for the intervention.

"I believe I have the answer to your query now, Poppy." It was Dumbledore, however, who spoke out, his voice conveying such grave sombreness that it effectively put a stop to the bickering between Snape and Pomfrey. " _Slaepan Somnus_."

It was like an ill-fated name being spoken aloud: Pomfrey took a sharp intake of breath while Snape's expression turned sour. Harry, on the other hand, was puzzled. He had a feeling he had come across the name once during his fruitless research on spells and potions that could overcome his sleeplessness, though he could not remember precisely what was written about the curse.

" _Slaepan Somnus_ is essentially a curse of a dubious nature," Dumbledore explained for Harry's benefit. "During the first stage, the victim suffers from hypersomnia and chronic fatigue, as though their life force is drained out of them. And then, after a month's time, the curse completes its course, causing the victim to fall into a deep sleep in which he or she cannot be roused from, leading eventually to death. Now, it has been said that for the curse to take effect, the initiator of the curse must bear unwavering hatred towards the one he or she intends to curse. Once the curse is cast, it can neither be countered nor undone, except by death."

All the air seemed to have suddenly left the room, and along with it was the last glimmer of hope Harry had desperately clung to. Harry found himself unable to breathe, unable to think; for Dumbledore's explanation of the curse was an announcement of a death sentence. "But why would anyone do something like that to him? Who would-"

A flash of inspiration sprang from the recess of Harry's mind like a bolt of electric current; various pieces of information that had seemed irrelevant at the time began to spell out the answer to his query. There was but one way to find out if his theory was correct; and he would be damned if he did not attempt it, even if the price to be paid might be higher than he could afford.

The tremor in his hands had stopped, and the chill had departed from his body. Unflinchingly Harry met Dumbledore's pensive gaze. "Professor, is it possible for you to break a memory charm and recover erased memory?"

Three sets of eyes were directed at him: Pomfrey's bewildered violet, Snape's calculating black, and Dumbledore's searching cerulean. For several tantalizing heartbeats, Dumbledore stared into Harry's forest green eyes in appraisal. After weighing his words carefully, Dumbledore finally replied, "Yes, I can. But depending on the strength of the memory charm, there is no guarantee that the mind will remain unharmed in the process."

It was a sincere warning on Dumbledore's part; nonetheless, Harry's mind was made, and he would not allow himself to be persuaded otherwise. "Then I have a request," Harry uttered calmly, never once did his voice falter, nor did his eyes waver from Dumbledore's. "I would like you to break the memory charm that is placed on me."

* * * * * * *

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_To be continued..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Does anyone catch the Little Match Girl reference? Hypersomnia is basically the opposite of insomnia, where a person sleeps all the time. Well, the end is near now. Thank you very much for reading.


	6. Sixth Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A butterfly brings about the calamity; an unintentional gift brings about the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and its characters are not mine.

Ruby, amber, emerald, sapphire, aquamarine, amethyst: it was a kaleidoscopic vision liken to that of a spinning rose window. The dazzling iridescence blended together into an orb of moonlit pearl, with a brilliance that rivalled the chaste moon on winter nights. Gradually the luminescence dimmed, revealing the outline of a face. Hair fair as white-washed gold, skin pale as pristine bones, eyes silver like the slivers of moonlight reflected upon a midsummer night's lake -- it was Draco Malfoy.

Somewhere beyond Harry's periphery, a candlelight danced in uncertain movements, painting Draco's face with an ever-changing pattern of light and shadow. Held firmly in that white hand of Draco's was a wand, its tip pointing straight ahead like an arrow on a stretched bow, ready to fire.

A persistent chill from the uncompromising hardwood floor was pressing against Harry's back, reminding him rudely of his vulnerable state: Draco was towering over him with a wand trained at his face. Harry tried to move, but like music falling on deaf ear, his thought did not reach his body; the full body bind Draco had placed on him could not be broken by sheer will-power alone.

With his entire body immobilised, there was very little Harry could do but glare at Draco with as much venom as he could muster; but Harry knew better than anyone else that his current plight was of no one's fault but his own. Had he listened to his voice of reason and dismissed the suspicious-looking note, he would not have fallen into a trap like some naive damsel in distress. Ignorant though he was as to what kind of treatment Draco would inflict on him, Harry had an inkling it would not be pleasant.

Nevertheless, even though Draco had him at his mercy, Harry saw not even the faintest shadow of triumph in Draco. Instead, torrents of contradicting emotions were pouring onto Draco's face, each fighting to become the dominant force. Some uneasy seconds had passed before Draco's expression hardened with determination. "Don't take this personally." After a pause, Draco waved his wand and uttered, " _Slaepan Somnus._ "

As soon as those two words left Draco's mouth, a golden butterfly seemingly composed of light burst forth from Draco's wand, like a maturing caterpillar breaking out of its cocoon. Harry could only watch in bemused fascination as the glowing butterfly waltzed playfully above his head, its weightless wings stirring up neither a whisper nor a sigh.

And then, as if finding Harry an uninteresting specimen, the butterfly fluttered gracefully towards the momentarily stunned Draco. With a surprised gasp, Draco tried to fend off the butterfly, but the butterfly nimbly eluded his attack. Like a raindrop merging into a puddle of water, the butterfly sailed right into Draco and vanished without a trace.

Like a victim who had the misfortune of gazing into the eyes of the wrathful Medusa, Draco neither moved nor spoke for some time. While little did Harry know what had precisely taken place, judging by the shock and dismay on Draco's face, it appeared Draco had expected a drastically different result than what had happened.

In agitation Draco chewed on his lower lip before putting away his wand. He then took something out of his pocket. Squinting at the object in Draco's hand, Harry saw what appeared to be a glass vial filled with liquid of a shade of green that reminded Harry of the meadow in spring. Whatever the substance may be, its appearance was as unassuming as the red apple in the hand of a strange old woman, and Harry suspected it was probably just as innocent.

When Draco crouched down beside him with a countenance of one who was standing on the edge of a knife, Harry observed his every movement with increasing apprehension, for his chance of escaping unscathed was becoming slimmer by the second. After pulling out the cap from the bottle, Draco forced Harry's mouth open and held the vial close to Harry's mouth, so close that Harry could almost taste the peculiar bittersweet tang at the tip of his tongue. Reflexively Harry wanted to twist his head away, but his body remained frozen; he had little choice but to settle for a defiant glare instead. If he were to die, then he would not give Draco the satisfaction of seeing him overwhelmed by fear.

Stormy grey eyes gazed briefly into Harry's forest green before turning away, as if they could not withstand the accusation within those bright pupils. For a perplexed second, Harry thought he saw Draco's hand shaking ever so slightly, but he figured it was merely a trick of the light. At length, Draco spoke again, his strained voice lined with a new note of desperation, "Hate me all you want. I have nothing more to say."

For several tense heartbeats, Harry thought Draco was going to force the mystery potion down his throat, but eventually Draco withdrew the vial. Nevertheless, Harry was not granted further time to ponder about Draco's unexpected action, for Draco had drawn out his wand in a quick flash--

\-- When Harry opened his eyes, he immediately found himself staring at the end of a wand. As he felt a flood of panic about to swallow him whole, he swiftly pulled out his wand in defence and aimed at the one who was threatening his life.

"Stop, Harry!" was all Harry heard before his wand escaped his clutch. Blinking away the last remnant of the past from his vision, Harry saw Dumbledore standing before him with his wand drawn, his face grave and weary. Off to the side, Snape also had his wand out, while Pomfrey glared at Snape as though she had grievous injury in her mind.

The brass-framed beds neatly lined up along the walls and the lingering scent of disinfecting freshness reminded Harry that he was presently in the hospital wing, sitting cross-legged on one of the beds. Two beds over was where Draco was sleeping soundly like a hibernating creature, trapped in a never-ending slumber that Harry could only hope was one of tranquillity; he did not even dare to contemplate the alternative. For how long had Harry submitted himself to Dumbledore's administration he could not tell; but the sky beyond the window remained still a cloak of velvet indigo, yet to brighten up.

Suddenly Harry was stricken by a wave of nausea; bile was rising rapidly in his throat. It took a quick response on Dumbledore's part that Harry did not get sick on himself or all over the floor.

"That's why I've protested against forcefully breaking a memory charm," Pomfrey remarked heatedly while rushing over to examine Harry. Even though Harry was busily throwing up into the bucket Dumbledore had conjured for him, Harry heard what Pomfrey had said; he rather admired Pomfrey for daring to yell at the formidable headmaster of Hogwarts. "A human brain is delicate enough as it is. Attempting to break a memory charm is nothing short of randomly poking a needle into someone's brain."

"I understand your concern, Poppy," Dumbledore said quietly, but there was a hint of gravity in his voice. "However, Harry has the right to decide for himself what he wants to do."

"With little to no knowledge of the specific side-effects beforehand," Pomfrey retorted while patting Harry's back none too gently. "How can he make a wise decision when he doesn't even comprehend all the risks involved?"

Harry thought he ought to say something, but before he could do so, Snape had interrupted the verbal duel between the matron and the headmaster. "Perhaps it is best that we leave this debate for another day," Snape commented while studying Harry closely with a look Harry liked not; it resembled that of a wolf trying to sniff out the trail of a human child in an overgrown forest. "As it stands at present, it is of vital importance to examine _every_ piece of the puzzle currently in our possession."

There was a sinking feeling at the pit of Harry's stomach, for Snape's remark struck too close to home. The forgotten memory Harry had recovered was one of the few things Harry would rather remain hidden from others; but the dark shadow hanging over Dumbledore's face was enough to alert Harry that the secret he had tried to conceal was no longer a secret. Irritated, Harry gritted his teeth at this breach of trust, the inside of his mouth tasted as foul as his mood. "Did you see everything, sir?"

"I apologise for invading your privacy," Dumbledore replied as he regarded Harry; he had obviously perceived the indignation radiating from Harry. "But it was necessary in order for me to help you retrieve your erased memory."

Detecting the inquiring gazes from Pomfrey and Snape, Harry knew it was not the time for him to let his emotion get the better of him. He took a deep breath to compose himself before asking, "Professor, you've mentioned that the curse cannot be undone except by death. Whose death would it be?" Even as those words left his mouth, he already had a premonition of what the reply to his query would be.

Dumbledore remained silent for some time, his brows knotted into a troubled tangle bespoke of inner conflict. Half a minute went by before he finally uttered, "Forgive me." Swirling within those profound blue eyes was a sea of sincere regret. "For I cannot give you an answer."

* * * * * * *

Silence was the only sound to be heard within the hospital wing, the same kind of silence that had once overrun a certain ruined castle surrounded by a forest of thorns. The teachers had departed from the hospital wing in accordance with Dumbledore's suggestion, leaving Harry alone with Draco inside this locked chamber. Although the privacy granted to Harry was only as thick as the door that separated the hospital wing from the rest of Hogwarts castle, Harry was slightly comforted by the thought that the rest of the world could be shut away, if only for a transient while.

Lying beside Draco on the crowded hospital bed, Harry gazed deeply at the one who was as frail and motionless as a crystal figurine. Harry's expression was one of transfixed emptiness, his green eyes dull as a rusty blade. Reeling still from the mental shock of the memory charm being broken, the present and the past blended into each other like ashes and dust. Everything within Harry's line of sight appeared slightly distorted; Draco's face shone with too brilliant a lustre, while the candlelight by the nightstand diminished into a mere spark. The feverish heat in his body was gradually burning away his rationality, leaving him with the strangest impression of sleepwalking in the world where reality was but one long, never-ending dream.

As the unlocked memory was played once more in Harry's mind like a broken record, Harry wondered at the irony that for once Draco had told him the truth. And yet, even knowing Draco had indeed tried to kill him, Harry could not bring himself to hate Draco; far too well could he surmise the identity of the puppet master hiding behind Draco like a hateful shadow. But none of it mattered now, for Draco was slowly slipping away from his grasp, to the land where Sleep is the twin brother of Death.

Tentatively Harry caressed Draco's cheek, his heart tightened when he felt unnatural coolness beneath his fingertips. Like stroking the unfeeling flesh of the ivory Galatea, Draco did not quiver once from Harry's touch. Nonetheless, no statue of this world could possibly emit such bewitching fragrance that left him drunk with yearning.

When was the flame of infatuation first ignited in his heart? When did Draco become something so precious, like the leaden heart of a princely statue and the corpse of a faithful swallow? Was it when he began to notice the first sign of illness in Draco? Or was it sprung from a time long before that fateful night when their lives were entangled by the doing of the whimsical butterfly? So chaotic was Harry's mind that he knew not what the answer was anymore.

Taking off his glasses, Harry dared himself to nestle his head on Draco's shoulder and envelop Draco in a protective embrace. Weary, Harry closed his eyes, wishing for Draco to wake up from his cursed sleep and for the same sleep to come to him instead. Gladly he would take on the role of Draco's knight, especially since he had at last solved the riddle to Draco's predicament.

By choosing not to answer Harry's question, Dumbledore had given him the first key to unlock the mystery behind _Slaepan Somnus_ : the curse could only be undone by the death of the other person connected to the curse. If Draco's death was the only way to bring the curse to an end, Dumbledore would have spoken as such. The second key, on the other hand, had been in Harry's possession all along, even though he did not realise it till now.

The insomnia and the fever Harry was afflicted with were the first and foremost clues; it was as though Harry himself had stolen away Draco's life force and warmth from him. If so, then it was understandable why Dumbledore was hesitant to reveal the truth, for it was through Harry's death that the curse will be broken. Even though it remained to be nothing more than a theory, Harry was willing to gamble on it with his life.

Fleetingly he wondered if his mind was damaged by the unlocking of a lost memory, for he felt a strange detachment towards his final decision. Perhaps in some way, his subconscious had foreseen such an inevitable ending since the very beginning, just as how Romeo had read his own fate in the stars before the destined encounter with his Juliet. However, self-sacrificing was not what he was about to do; he merely did not wish to be the one to be left behind. He would rather Draco live hating him than to see Draco tumbling into the abyss of oblivion, never again to think, to feel, to remember.

Propping himself up on his elbow, he stared at the sharp edges of Draco's face and those shapely lips that had taken on a bluish hue. The pang in his chest was suffocatingly intense, but so was the shiver of desire in his stomach. He had long since run out of excuses to deny the existence of his unrequited affection towards this brat of a boy; and now, there was nothing more for him to do but to accept this ultimate truth.

Surrendering himself to his long-suppressed longing, Harry leant over Draco and brushed his lips lightly against Draco's. The initial contact to those cool lips sent an electric current through Harry's body, making his entire body quiver with terrifying joy. He never thought a kiss could bring him such exquisite pain, the same pain that had surely been endured by the nightingale who used its own blood to nourish the most sublime of red roses. And yet, amidst the ache was the lingering sweetness of the evergreen cedar that made his heart flutter.

Savouring Draco's lips for several heartbeats longer, Harry reluctantly pulled away and gazed at the boy who could not be woken by a kiss. If a true love's kiss could indeed conquer death, then Harry supposed he was, regrettably, not Draco's true love. Perchance he should feel embittered by it, but in the presence of the object of his affection, everything else seemed as insignificant as a grain of sand in a desert.

Gently pressing his forehead against Draco's, Harry spoke softly to him, "Why didn't you kill me? You probably knew this is the only way to undo the curse. Does it mean you don't hate me as much as I thought?" Absently Harry wondered if the reason Draco had been frequenting the library lately was in fact to search for alternative means to undo the curse, even if his effort had turned out to be in vain.

Letting out a heavy sigh, Harry ran a finger along Draco's cheekbone. "Guess I'll never find out, will I?" A finger lingered lovingly over Draco's angular chin. "Do you know how much I hated it when you told me to hate you? Seriously, you are so bloody selfish." There was an unpleasant sensation at the back of his mind as if an insect was crawling inside his head, but he ignored it. "Let me be the selfish one for once, okay?"

Thirty odd days of insomnia, thirty odd days of emotional upheaval, thirty odd days of secret longing -- and now Draco was the only thing in Harry's mind, the only thing Harry's green eyes beheld. Forgotten were his family, his friends, his mentors and elders, his enemies, even his own past; it was as though Harry had already taken a sip from the Lethe river.

Gently Harry captured Draco's lips once more in a chaste kiss that was delicate as a love letter that would never reach the intended, before pulling out the vial of poison sealed with Harry's name, the cursed yet blessed gift from Draco. Pulling out the stopper, he gazed at the sea of evergreen for several seconds, then drank every last drop of the bittersweet substance that was death.

As soon as the poison flowed into his throat, he felt liquid fire burning his throat. Attacked by a violent coughing fit, it was all he could do to clutch his abused throat and cover his mouth. Tasting a metallic tang on his tongue, he hastily turned his head away from Draco, but droplets of livid red had splattered onto Draco's pallid visage, tarnishing his fair complexion.

When the fit had passed, Harry looked through the watery mist that had gathered in his eyes, and saw the blood that had tainted that unblemished face of Draco's. _No, that would not do_ , he mused lethargically as he reached out in an attempt to wipe away the crimson stain. However, before his fingertips could even graze Draco's skin, his hand fell lifelessly onto the blanket. Every ounce of his energy had fled from his body, leaving him completely drained. No longer able to support himself, Harry collapsed on top of Draco.

So cold and heavy his body had become, he could barely summon the strength to move. Thankfully the agonising pain had departed, leaving him with a solacing bliss that the death Draco had chosen for him was a mercifully swift one. As his consciousness began to fade, he felt a welcoming somnolence slowly eating away his mind, until the only thing remained was the image of the boy who was mocking him with that despicably alluring smirk of his.

With that very last thought languishing in his darkening mind, he fell into the loving embrace of the god Somnus, dreaming of a midnight rendezvous beneath the ethereal moonlight, having a little tea party with his haughty, selfish prince.

* * * * * * *

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_To be continued..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Galatea is an ivory statue carved by Pygmalion, who falls in love with his own creation. The Lethe river is the river of forgetfulness in the underworld; the dead must drink from the river in order to forget their past lives. There is a reference to the Happy Prince in this chapter, in case you haven't noticed. To me, this fic is like a very long love letter, but I'll let you decide to whom it's addressed to. Thank you very much for reading.


	7. Seventh Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sleepless fairy tale ends in a blessing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and its characters are not mine.

The dusty air unique to old parchment and the faintly pungent odour belonging to recent volumes -- it was such a nostalgic scent, like an old friend one has not seen since childhood. To others, the library was a daunting place, a sacred temple for the scholarly inclined; but to him, it was his treasure chest, his secret garden made up of forbidden books unexplored and forgotten knowledge not pursued. Nonetheless, it was not for such a reason that Draco was in the Hogwarts library with a stack of books in his arms.

It had been days since the headmaster of Hogwarts handed down his final judgement to Draco over the crime he had committed. The punishment -- detentions for the remainder of the year and the revocation of his position as prefect -- was unexpectedly lenient, especially considering the nature of his crime.

Draco could still picture the scene clearly in his head: the vaulted headmaster chamber cluttered with curious artefacts and nameless texts, and the meddlesome wizard with the knowing smile he never liked. The deep, resonating voice bespoke of decades of wisdom echoed softly in his mind--

"Certainly your actions were inexcusable; however, it has not been by your choice that it comes to such an end," Dumbledore said quietly as he regarded Draco; there was not a hint of accusation in those azure eyes.

"But it should have been my decision to make," Draco responded with such removed placidness that it could be mistaken for indifference. "I've known it would come to this. Every dark curse with the sole purpose to kill requires a payment of some sort from the conjuror who casts it. The Killing Curse doesn't just tear the victim's soul out of his body; it also damages the soul of the wizard who casts it. That is supposed to be the price, the backlash.

"The same logic applies to _Slaepan Somnus_ , though the backlash in this case is opposite of what the curse is supposed to do: insomnia to hypersomnia, fever to cold. When the curse rebounded onto me, the role of the conjuror and the victim must have reversed; I became the victim, and he the conjuror.

"The legend goes that by the death of the conjuror, the curse would be undone. Therefore, if I wanted to live, he would have to die." Lucid grey eyes met Dumbledore's profound blue unflinchingly; Draco was too numb to put on a facade of civility. "And if it were up to you, you would've let me die. After all, I'm expendable, and he's not."

Those half-moon glasses of Dumbledore's briefly reflected the lamplight, momentarily shielding his expression from Draco's scrutiny. "I won't lie to you, Draco. But I had a feeling Harry would do what he had done once he discovered the answer to the riddle."

 _What if he couldn't solve it?_ Bitter retort was about to leave Draco's mouth, but he held his tongue in time; there was no point in accusing the headmaster of Hogwarts for actions he would and would not have undertaken had the circumstances been different.

"Draco." Dumbledore uttered with a grave solemnity that piqued Draco's attention. "You of all people know the reason behind the failure of the Somnus curse. And it is for that reason, and for my own shortcoming as your mentor, that I shall grant you another chance."--

With a firm shake of his head, Draco rebalanced the stack of books in his arms, and walked over to the shelves of books devoted to the subject of healing. As he proceeded to shelve the books back to their rightful places, a particular title on the bookshelf caught his eye like a fountain in a desert. It was an enormous volume bound in leather of acid green, with the title stamped onto the spine in bold golden lettering: _The Tome of Healing._

Drawn by the text, Draco set aside the books that were inconveniently occupying his arms, and took down the heavy tome from the bookshelf. As though possessing a mind of its own, the book fell open to the pages that described the various causes of muteness. When the word _poison_ jumped into view, Draco's eyes darkened into a shade of bruised remorse.

Exhaling deeply, he slammed the volume shut and put it back where it belonged. Moving over to the next section, he returned to the mundane task assigned by Madam Pince, until he glimpsed upon a mop of dark hair through the space between the upper and lower shelves. The image tugged at Draco's memory, reawakening in his mind the scene he had tried in vain to stow away: Pomfrey briskly firing off whatever revival spells she could think of; Snape stalking out of the infirmary in search of the antidote; Dumbledore nodding once to him before rushing to Pomfrey's side; glass fragments pooled the floor like rain drops; flower of the most vivid of crimson blooming on the snowy white pillow...

Draco's hand slipped, and the book he was holding fell onto the floor with a loud thud that shattered the stifling stillness in the library. Cursing under his breath, Draco bent down to retrieve the book. When he straightened, he found himself staring into a pair of crystalline green eyes not unlike those of a cat; Harry Potter was gazing at him from the gap between the wooden panel and the various volumes rested below.

Harry gave Draco a friendly wave, then swiftly disappeared out of sight, only to reappear before Draco in person. Of all the people Draco did not wish to encounter, coincidence -- or was it a twisted form of divine intervention? -- dictated it to be the one person Draco least wanted to see. The sight of Harry standing before him stirred up too many unwanted thoughts, like a gust of unpleasant wind stirring up the powdery snow on the white mountain.

For someone who had stepped into Charon's ferry only to be pulled out of it in the nick of time, Harry had recovered from his ordeal surprisingly quickly. He seemed fit and alert; not even a trace of his recent insomniac episode remained. However, there were wounds of this world that the naked eye could not perceive.

A faintly sheepish smile was spreading across Harry's face, a smile that enlivened his face like a firefly in the dark; but Draco secretly wished Harry would relinquish his solacing smile. After pulling out a small notepad and a self-inking quill from the pocket of his robe, Harry scribbled something on one of the pages, then held it up for Draco to see. His handwriting was slant and messy, but it was legible. _"Glad you are all right now. It's a bit boring without you as a sparring partner."_

Although the underlying tone was light, Draco was not fooled by the act. The poison Harry had ingested, which was concocted by Draco himself, had damaged Harry's vocal cords, rendering it impossible for him to produce a sound. While it was not yet known whether this condition would be temporary or permanent, Draco suspected it had not been easy for Harry. And yet, like a proud champion fighting in a duel of honour, Harry stubbornly refused to let his distress be shown.

"Yeah," Draco answered vaguely; the silence hanging over them was so pronounced that he felt a sudden urge to fill the air with his voice. "Have Pomfrey and Snape come up with anything to recover your voice yet?"

There was a barely noticeable pause before Harry shook his head and wrote, _"But don't worry about me. I'm fine."_

Draco knew otherwise, for aside from the aphonia Harry suffered from, Harry had also been taking a silver-coloured potion prescribed by Pomfrey, a potion Draco presumed to be used for treating mental trauma. A well-meaning lie though Harry had told, it did little to soothe Draco's conscience.

"You really are hopeless at lying," Draco rebuked while returning the book he had dropped earlier back to its long-awaited home. "Don't you know that in order to tell a convincing lie, you have to believe in the lie you are telling?"

Throwing a glance towards Harry's direction, he was surprised to find Harry laughing, though his laughter was devoid of sound. For an inexplicable moment, Draco felt a strange need to hear Harry's voice once more. But to his faint disappointment, Harry merely scrawled his next line on the parchment. _"You've said something like that to me before."_

Despite himself, the corner of Draco's mouth curled upward of its own accord. "So I did," Draco agreed while contemplating Harry's face, and for the first time, he noticed a small black mole beneath the corner of Harry's left eye; it was like a drop of inky tear forever frozen on its track. "Why don't you just stop acting in front of me? You have no talent for it at all. Besides, it's not as if I don't know everything already. And since I'm not Weasley or Granger, I'm not about to interrogate you like they did in the witch-hunt inquisition."

Those bottle green pupils of Harry's were downcast as Harry stared at his notepad for some time, in brooding or in search of words Draco could not tell. Putting his eagle-feathered quill to the parchment, Harry composed several lines in haste; the heavily slant writing told Draco much more about Harry's state of mind than the formation of letters and punctuation on the half-filled page. _"You don't have to be nice to me as if you have to pay me back. I've selfishly decided that I wanted you to live. I did what I did for myself. You don't owe me anything."_

Something akin to anger was rising rapidly from the depth of Draco's heart; it was the same kind of simmering anger he had felt when he first smelled the acidic fragrance of poison and blood from Harry's cold, dead lips. Draco had no sympathy for those who threw away their lives in order to save another, for they did not consider the feelings of those they left behind. If all it took was for Harry to voluntarily sign away his life, then all the inner battles and debates Draco had been engaging with himself all this time were for naught.

Fixing Harry a stare that was colder than Draco had intended, Draco simply said, "Yes, you are selfish."

Holding Draco's gaze with his clouded pupils, Harry's pretence of cheerfulness slipped away like a knight of old being stripped of his silver armour. Biting morosely at the inside of his cheek, Harry mouthed his response, _"Yeah, I know."_

Fleetingly Draco pondered if he was being ungrateful; after all, Harry had led him back to the land of the living, even though Draco had attempted to steal his living breath from him. Words of thanks were what Draco ought to give, and yet thorny words were the ones leaving his mouth instead.

A sliver of regret slithered into Draco's heart like a cunning snake. Given Harry's history, he probably understood all too well what it was like to survive the death of those close to him. "Sorry, that was uncalled for," Draco uttered an apology as he looked away from Harry in discomfort.

In truth, words were all Draco had; there was very little he could do to repay his debt, no matter Harry's claim of the contrary. Neither had he the healer's touch to bring back Harry's voice from the ocean depth, nor could he offer fake affection out of sheer gratitude -- it would be an insult to both Harry and himself.

Suddenly, Draco felt a hand resting on his shoulder, startling him out of his rumination. When he looked upon Harry, he saw Harry's brow wrinkled with genuine concern; and it left a sharp sting in Draco's chest. Apparently noticing the subtle shift in Draco's mood, Harry removed his hand, leaving behind a phantom-like warmth that might well be an illusion stemmed from Draco's imagination. Calmly Harry tore out a page from his notepad, and handed it to Draco with a ghost of a smile. Not waiting for Draco to read what was written on the parchment, Harry waved farewell to him, then resolutely whirled around, retracing the steps he came from.

The first line of text had barely registered in Draco's mind before he was overtaken by an irrational impulse he could neither suppress nor ignore. Looking up at the retreating figure that was quietly walking away in solitude, Draco called out, "Potter."

Halted abruptly on his track, Harry turned to regard Draco like an Orpheus who could not resist looking back at his dead beloved, he with his naive sincerity bordering on foolishness, his heart laid bare on his visage for the whole world to see. Not once had Harry asked anything of him, nor had Harry given Draco one single chance to pacify his guilty conscience; such benevolence was surely far more cruel than any act of malice.

For several heartbeats, Draco merely peered into those deep, raging green orbs of Harry's, until a flash of insight illuminated his mind. Perhaps there was something he could grant Harry, even though it would be no more than a transient spark amidst the sand of time. Slowly he advanced towards Harry, annihilating the vast, empty distance between them, until they were close enough to touch yet far enough to get away should either of them choose to do so. Although there was a shadow of bemusement on Harry's face, in his eyes shone a flare that could not be easily extinguished.

Was it selfishness or pity or something much more that was compelling him to do what he was about to do? Draco supposed he will never know.

Leaning forward little by little, Draco lightly grazed Harry's lips with his, taking in the unique aroma of fresh sunshine and a whiff of spicy mint he had not known existed. The mouth against his hesitated for but a beat before melting completely into his, adoring him with such undiluted affection that Draco could barely breathe.

Precious seconds ticked by before they parted at last, both breathless and slightly disoriented from the kiss. There was a hint of shock remaining still on Harry's face; and yet his gaze was liken to that of a lover in aching longing. Averting his eyes for the sake of his sanity, Draco said with what he hoped was an air of impartiality, "There's something I thought you should know. My Aunt Bellatrix was the one who sent me to kill you -- to eliminate a potential threat for the Dark Lord. Once she finds out I've failed, she would most likely try something again. Only this time, she might choose to deliver the message herself."

Draco did not see the expression on Harry's face, but he sensed Harry's body stiffen at the name of the one responsible for the death of Sirius Black. The fleeting moment of tenderness from before had evaporated like the iridescent illusion of a bubble being burst.

Gentle fingers tilted Draco's chin, prompting Draco to look at Harry, who was smiling that soft, rueful smile of his; Draco could not remember a time when Harry had smiled so much at him in the past. _"Thank you,"_ Harry whispered silently to Draco before pulling his hand away.

Smiling another quick smile, Harry turned on his heels and went on his way once more; this time, Draco did not stop him. When Harry had disappeared out of sight, Draco smoothed out the note that was crumbled in his fist, and stared blankly at the messy scrawl on the parchment.

_"You were right. I was selfish. I guess I've just fallen head over heels for you, that's all. And if I could, I would've wanted to stay by your side for a little while longer. But I guess this is it. My little make-believe is over now. I won't bother you any longer. Take care of yourself."_

The aftertaste of mint lingered still on Draco's lips, pricking his skin like brier thorns. Folding the parchment neatly in half, he put it in his pocket, then whispered to the vacant air that would grant him no reply, "I was cruel, wasn't I?"

* * * * * * *

The moon rose and fell night after night, gradually waning from full to new. Life at Hogwarts had returned to its old normalcy, its old familiar routine. And yet, it felt oddly empty and bland to Draco, like a cup of cold tea that had long since lost its sweet aroma.

The stars were nigh when Draco was at last released from his detention for the night. Strolling along the dark corridor of Hogwarts castle while massaging his aching arm, he let his feet guide him to the entrance of the kitchen, where a vibrant portrait depicting a bowl of ripened fruits was hung. It had been Draco's intention to enjoy a cup of tea before turning in for the night; but for some unfathomable reason, the face of a certain Gryffindor was brought to the forefront of his mind, refusing to part.

As promised, Harry had kept his distance from Draco; not even a word of spite had been exchanged between the two former rivals ever since that evening of confession and truth. And yet, lately Draco would often find himself observing Harry from a distance, pondering about the unyielding past and the uncertain present. For the most part, Harry had remained blissfully oblivious to the attention he was receiving; and on the rare occasions that Draco was caught, Harry would simply smile that boyish smile of his at him.

This new habit of Draco's was hardly healthy, but Draco had no desire to stop. Whenever he remembered the scene played out in the hospital wing, he would feel an overpowering urge to seek out the lean figure amidst the crowd, and to ascertain for himself that Harry was not about to disappear beyond his sight to the opposite shore.

Letting out a breath, Draco stepped into the bustling kitchen that was slowly winding down for the night. After settling himself before one of the long tables, Draco absently noted that he was the sole visitor at this hour. As though taking Draco's presence as their cue, two house-elves dutifully brought to Draco his usual order of tea, and then vanished as swiftly as they came after everything was set.

Mechanically Draco picked up the translucent tea cup, and watched a wisp of white vapour escaping from the amber depth. A whiff of floral, musky aroma caressed Draco's senses, bringing into his mind a vision of the summer green field and the cloudless blue sky from his remote childhood.

For some time, Draco had kept his suspicion to himself; but now, it seemed he no longer needed to do so. After taking a sip of the silky Darjeeling tea, Draco set the cup down on the saucer and uttered, "Dobby, I want to talk to you."

There was a loud clatter by the far corner of the kitchen where a dozen of large pots were piled precariously into an untidy heap. Some seconds passed by before a house-elf timidly stepped out of his hiding place behind the barricade of metal pots, and approached Draco as though he was walking towards the gallows. The eclectic attire the house-elf wore marked him as the one who talked to Harry the other night.

When the house-elf finally reached where Draco was seated, the house-elf clutched the hem of his shorts nervously and asked, "Wha- what would you like to ask, sir?"

The voice, though high-pitched as was the norm for most house-elves, stirred Draco's memory. It definitely belonged to Dobby, the house-elf who once worked for the Malfoy family, and whom Harry had freed from the binding contract with a little trick he played on the patriarch of the Malfoy family. Although Lucius Malfoy had been furious over the incident, Draco had never cared for it either way; the Malfoys had enough servants at their disposal that they could afford losing a stray house-elf or two. Nonetheless, ever since Dobby's departure, tea at the Malfoy Manor had never tasted quite the same.

"I'll just ask you one thing," Draco said directly to Dobby, not bothering with pleasantry of any kind. "Were you the one who made the tea?"

With his head bowed, Dobby replied in a small voice, "Yes sir." And then he looked up at Draco, as though some forgotten worry had suddenly occurred to him. "Does young master not like the tea? I'll go and make another pot right away."

Before Dobby could vanish into some dark corner where Draco could not see him, Draco called him back, all the while wondering why Dobby went through all the trouble for a former master who had barely paid any attention to him in the past. "No, it's fine." Draco paused for a beat, then rested his chin on his palm while appraising Dobby's expression. "I'm not your young master anymore, so there's no need for you to give me any special treatment. Why bother making tea for me then?"

"I thought young master hadn't been looking well, so I made the tea young master used to like, so that he might feel better," Dobby said in a barely audible mumble that sounded almost like the buzzing of an annoying wasp; Draco had to strain his ear in order to hear what Dobby was saying. "I know young master wouldn't want to see me after Harry Potter freed me from the family, so... so I didn't want to let young master know it's me who made the tea."

As Dobby stammered through his words, Draco was suddenly reminded of a certain green-eyed someone who was also prone to such incomprehensible actions that eluded Draco's pragmatic learning; neither that certain someone nor Dobby seemed to realise kindness could be turned into the sweetest of poison that ensnares one's heart.

"Listen here, Dobby," Draco remarked with as much aloofness as he could inject into his voice. "You no longer work for the Malfoys, so don't ever call me young master again. You are now a Hogwarts house-elf, so start acting like one."

Draco was not certain if Dobby understood the true meaning behind his seemingly severe reprimand, but judging by the wobbly smile creeping onto Dobby's face after a moment of uncertainty, it appeared his speech had not fallen entirely on deaf ear. Surmising Dobby had suffered enough of his presence, Draco dismissed him. "That's all. You can go back to whatever it is you were doing."

With a bow and a squeaky "thank you, sir", Dobby quickly scurried away, though his step was lighter than before, as though a heavy load had been lifted from his small shoulders. Left to his own device with a cup of tea in hand, Draco pondered if he was growing mellow after his unsuccessful journey to the underworld, or if it was the mortal world that had changed in his brief absence.

Unconsciously Draco brushed his thumb against his lips in reminiscence, where he was blessed by the warmest trickle of sunlight, from the boy who belonged to the limitless cerulean sky he dared not reach. Why do human beings only realise something is precious when it slips away from their grasp?

* * * * * * *

An old-fashioned oil lamp was burning steadily on the rosewood long table in the shady alcove between two impenetrable walls made of wood and paper; a boy was sitting before the table with his chin rested on the flawless surface, his dull eyes staring at a distant point that might well be the portal to the past. The scent of old parchment and ink permeated the air; nonetheless, no longer was there the bewitching fragrance of cedar.

It was late at night, the time when the nightingale sings its love song and the moth beats its wings in search of light. And here Harry was, stealing into the Hogwarts library like a thief in search of treasure, even though he knew the treasure was no longer to be found in this labyrinthine chamber. Although he ought to be more preoccupied with Draco's warning about Bellatrix Lestrange and the prelude of a war brewing beyond the walls of this ivory tower called Hogwarts, he could not stop dwelling over the kiss that was as elusive as the winged-horse Pegasus.

He knew better than to hope the kiss was anything beyond a gesture of gratitude. The fairy tale he had woven for himself had ended, and what was left of it was nothing but broken reality. Nonetheless, these sensible thoughts could not lessen his longing for the boy he could not have, for like the mother whose desire for the rapunzel lettuce from the sorceress' garden multiplied three-fold after the first bite, he found himself all the more addicted to the boy who was baptised by a ray of sublime moonlight.

Biting his lip in remembrance of Draco's lips against his, Harry cast his mind back to the conversation he shared with Draco on that bewildering night of revelation. Draco was angry with him, that Harry had fathomed out. At first, Harry figured he had wounded Draco's pride by making Draco feel indebted to him, even though Harry had never intended to hold the said debt against Draco in the first place. And yet, the clues he had gathered from Draco appeared to point to a different direction altogether.

The three teachers who were in the know had also expressed various degrees of disapproval over what Harry had done, though in vastly divergent manners. The most direct reaction Harry had received was a slap on the face from Pomfrey soon after he had recovered; Harry supposed he deserved it for attempting to commit suicide while in her charge, even though he had a legitimate reason to do so. Fortunately, Pomfrey had promptly returned to her typical overbearing mannerism after venting her displeasure.

Snape, on the other hand, had neither scornful words nor overtly hostile gesture against Harry, except for a twist of harshness in those black eyes of his every time he looked upon Harry. But it hardly bothered Harry, for he had long since grown accustomed to the antagonistic gaze from the Head of the Slytherin House.

The only one Harry was unable to decipher was Dumbledore, who had taken on a look of reflective tranquillity that deflected any attempt at scrutiny. Cranking his head to the side, Harry stared blankly at the outline of the paperback book he had neglected on the table, reliving in his head the exchange he had with Dumbledore during his recovery--

 _"Why is it that both Draco and I are still alive even though the curse has been broken?"_ was Harry's first question to Dumbledore after inquiring about Draco's condition. It was inconvenient to be conversing through writing, but Harry knew he would have to bear with it.

There was an unmistakable flash of sombreness upon Dumbledore's weathered face when he spoke. "But you have died, Harry. It was through your death that the curse was undone. And it was how Draco was woken from the cursed sleep. Had Draco woken up much later and failed to alert us of your condition immediately, I feared that you would have remained on the yonder shore, never to return."

Despite once possessing the determination to lay down his life, Harry could not suppress the shudder trailing down his spine at the ominous proclamation. Very little Harry could recollect from the time of his supposed death, though vaguely he remembered a voice telling him that it would never forgive him if he were to die -- he wondered whose voice it belonged to.

"I owe an apology to you and Draco," Dumbledore said, drawing Harry's mind back to the present. "I was prepared to take matter into my own hands, and if I must, I would place two lives upon a balance to be measured."

It took several seconds for Dumbledore's words to sink in, and when it did, Harry violently lashed out, shouting out words that carried not a trickle of a sound. _"You were going to let Draco die!? How could you!"_

Dumbledore closed his eyes for several beats before opening them, revealing irises of the keenest of blue. "At the time, when you were set upon gambling your life for Draco's, I wilfully placed my bet on both you and Draco: that with a pair of wings instead of one fragile wing, a butterfly can soar above its fate." There was a brief pause as Dumbledore recollected himself. "I will not ask for forgiveness, nor will I defend myself over the sin I have nearly committed. This is all I shall say."--

Running his fingers through his untidy hair in agitation, Harry sat up from his slouch. Furious though he had been at Dumbledore, therein laid an ounce of sympathy for the old wizard all the same; it was an unenviable task to choose a human life over another that was not his own.

When he realised he was brooding again, he vigorously shook his head to rid his mind of such depressing thoughts, and picked up the book he had borrowed from Hermione. Although the book belonged to Hermione, it was not another voluminous tome filled with page after page of unpronounceable terms and dry anecdotes; it was _The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes._

Turning his thought to his friends, Harry felt a sliver of guilt for concealing the truth from them. Revealing the truth would mean exposing Draco's secret to his two best friends, and that Harry could never do. Compared to the catastrophe that would surely arise should he divulge everything to his friends, composing a lie seemed to be the lesser of two evils. At the very least, Harry's dilemma was made slightly more bearable by the fact that he could not speak; it was much easier to tell a lie on paper.

Unconsciously Harry clutched his damaged throat, his green eyes darkened into deep wells of aqueous green. It would spell a lie to say that he had not felt a shred of anxiety over the loss of his voice; but he did not regret it. If his voice and his mental stability were the only things needed of him to exchange for Draco's life, then so be it.

A soft, bell-like chime coming from the inside of his breast pocket informed him it was time to take his potion, effectively interrupting his distracted journey through the Victorian world of Sherlock Holmes. Laying aside the book once more, Harry took out the vial from his pocket and downed the shimmering silver liquid in one gulp; as always, Harry could not help grimacing at the foul taste. Although Harry disliked the idea of being dependent on the potion, he dared not miss one single dose. The hallucination and the compulsion to scratch furiously at his scalp until he could extract the illusory insect crawling inside his head had been alarming to the point of terrifying; he had no desire to experience it ever again if he could help it.

Staring at the empty glass vial in his hand, he recalled with some irony that once upon a time, he used to carry his own bottle of death with him. Letting out a voiceless chuckle, Harry removed his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. Perhaps he should return to the Gryffindor dormitory; there was no point in waiting for someone who would never again appear at this time of night, in this deserted maze of a library. It had been nothing but a dream that could never last, like a butterfly leading an ephemeral existence that withers away as soon as it blossoms.

Even though his mind knew it well, his body was reluctant to follow, as though a part of him still clung to that small fragment of hope, unwilling to let go. As weariness loomed over him like a shadow, Harry conceded to his wish and rested his head on the cool surface of the rosewood table, where light and darkness exchanged an uncertain dance.

So many questions he wanted to ask Draco, and yet, he dared not voice them. He supposed he was merely fearful of the replies he might receive, for there were only so many blows his wounded heart could withstand -- was it conceited of him to think as such? Shutting his eyes to the land of the real, he hung onto the outstretched hand of gentle darkness that was inviting him to the land where dreams dwelt, if only for a little while.

Time within the hushed library appeared to stand still in pity for the sleeping boy, until soft footfall broke the spell of silence. The footsteps halted for a tentative beat, before the owner stepped within reach of the wavering lamplight. The golden glow illuminated the sharp visage of a boy with fair hair and pale skin -- it was Draco Malfoy.

Cautiously he approached the rosewood long table, his every movement as lithe and light as a bird. Peering at Harry's face, Draco was satisfied to find that his quarry was not about to wake up anytime soon. Nimbly moving to the other side of the table, Draco took a seat opposite of Harry's, then gazed at Harry's slumbering figure.

Draco wondered if he was being deceitful, for he had been the one who let go of his end of the night-coloured string that linked him and Harry together, and yet, here he was, breaking the vow he had made to himself.

When Draco fixed his gaze upon the forsaken empty bottle and the remnant of the silver liquid within, a dash of melancholic blue tinted his metallic grey eyes. You've spoiled me too much, Draco mused as he took from his pocket a bar of the finest chocolate Honeydukes had to offer, and placed it beside the glass vial; it was a small, consoling present for this idiot of a boy who fell asleep in the school library.

Almost as an afterthought, Draco ran his fingertips lightly over the ends of those dark, unruly strands of Harry's. Those raven locks beneath his fingers were rougher than he imagined, but there was a certain textural quality about them he rather liked, for they felt unbelievably real in this imaginary recess straddled between wakeful dreams and languid reality. After a brief moment of respite, Draco withdrew his hand and picked up the book Harry had left unread.

Such silly sentiment was unbecoming of him, Draco thought as he absently flipped through the Muggle detective novel in his hand; then again, there were no prying eyes lurking in the shadow to spy on his every move.

Casting his gaze upon the emerald-eyed boy who was enticed by the night, Draco watched over him as serenely as the chaste moon languishing across the starry sky in lazy steps, and whispered his blessing, "Sleep well, and may you dream a pleasant dream tonight."

* * * * * * *

__

_And I bid you a sweet good night._

__

_Finis._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Charon is the the ferryman of the dead, for a fee. I've attempted to distinguish the narration style between Draco and Harry, therefore Draco's scenes are less wordy than Harry's. Will Harry ever find out who left him the chocolate? I shall leave it for you to decide.
> 
> I have posted a chapter-by-chapter author's note [here](http://lee-bella.livejournal.com/281245.html) for your perusal. Thank you very much for reading.


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